parishioners concerning the many revelations of the God of truth in
Faith, and in Science and also directly and mysteriously in the human
soul. Holy Father the hearts of many, of very many, priests and laymen
belong to the Holy Spirit; the spirit of falsehood has not been able to
enter into them, not even in the garb of an angel. Speak one word, Holy
Father, perform one action which shall lift up those hearts, devoted to
the Holy See of the Roman Pontiff! Before the whole Church honour some
of these men, some of these ecclesiastics, against whom the spirit of
falsehood is striving. Raise some to the episcopal chair, some to
the Holy College! This also, Holy Father! If it be necessary, counsel
expounders and theologians to advance prudently, for science, in order
to progress, must be prudent; but do not allow the Index or the Holy
Office to condemn, because they are bold to excess, men who are an
honour to the Church, whose minds are full of truth, whose hearts are
full of Christ, who fight in defence of the Catholic faith! And as Your
Holiness has said that God reveals His truths even in the secret souls
of men, do not allow external devotions to multiply, their number
is already sufficient, but recommend to the pastors the practice and
teaching of inward prayer!”
Benedetto paused a moment, exhausted. The Pope raised his head,
and looked at the kneeling man, who was gazing fixedly at him with
sorrowful, luminous eyes, under knitted brows, the trembling of his
hands betraying the effort of the spirit. The Pope’s face bore traces of
intense emotion. He wished to tell Benedetto to rise; but he would not
speak, fearing his very voice would reveal his emotion. He insisted by
gestures, and at last Benedetto rose. Drawing the chair towards him,
he rested his hands, still tightly clasped, on its back, and once more
began to speak.
“If the clergy neglect to teach the people to pray inwardly--and this
is as salutary to the soul as certain superstitions are contaminating to
it--it is the work of the second spirit of evil, disguised as an angel
of light, which infests the Church. This is the spirit of domination
of the clergy. Those priests who have the spirit of domination are
ill-pleased when souls communicate directly and in the natural way with
God, going to Him for counsel and direction. Their aim is righteous!
Thus does the evil one deceive their conscience, which in its turn
deceives; their aim is righteous. But they themselves wish to direct
these souls, in the character of mediator, and the souls grow weary,
timid, servile. Perhaps there are not many such; the worst crimes of the
spirit of domination are of a different nature. It has suppressed the
ancient and holy Catholic liberty. It seeks to place obedience first
among the virtues, even where it is not exacted by the laws. It desires
to impose submission even where it is not obligatory, retractions which
offend the conscience; wherever a group of men assemble for good works,
it wishes to take the command, and if they decline to submit to this
command, all support is withdrawn from them. It even strives to carry
religious authority outside the sphere of religion. Holy Father, Italy
knows this! But what is Italy? It is not for her that I speak, but for
the whole Catholic world. Holy Father, you may not yet have experienced
it, but this spirit of domination will strive to exert its influence
over you, yourself. Do not yield, Holy Father! You are the Governor of
the Church; do not allow others to govern you; do not allow your power
to become as a glove for the invisible hands of others. Have public
counsellors; let the bishops be summoned often to national councils; let
the people take part in the elections of bishops, choosing men who are
beloved and respected by the people; and let the bishops mingle with
the masses, not only to pass tinder triumphal arches, to be saluted by
clanging bells, but to become acquainted with the masses, to encourage
them in the imitation of Christ. Let them do these things rather than
shut themselves up in the episcopal palaces, like princes of the Orient,
as so many now do. And give them all the authority which is compatible
with that of Peter.
“May I continue, Your Holiness?”
The Pope, who while Benedetto had been speaking had kept his eyes fixed
on his face, now bowed his head slightly, in answer.
“The third evil spirit which is corrupting the Church does not disguise
itself as an angel of light, for it well knows it cannot deceive; it is
satisfied with the garb of common, human honesty. This is the spirit of
avarice. The Vicar of Christ dwells in this royal palace as he dwelt
in his episcopal palace, with the pure heart of poverty. Many venerable
pastors dwell in the Church with the same heart, but the spirit of
poverty is not preached sufficiently, not preached as Christ preached
it. The lips of Christ’s ministers are too often over-complaisant to
those who seek riches. There are those among them who bow the head
respectfully before the man who has much, simply because he has much;
there are those who let their tongues flatter the greedy, and too many
preachers of the word and of the example of Christ deem it just for them
to revel in the pomp and honours attending on riches, to cleave with
their souls to the luxury riches bring. Father, exhort the clergy to
show those greedy for gain, be they rich or poor, more of that charity
which admonishes, which threatens, which rebukes. Holy Father!----”
Benedetto ceased speaking. There was an expression, of fervent appeal in
the gaze fixed upon the Pope.
“Well?” the Pontiff murmured.
Benedetto spread wide his arms, and continued:
“The Spirit urges me to say more. It is not the work of a day, but let
us prepare for the day--not leaving this task to the enemies of God and
of the Church--let us prepare for the day on which the priests of Christ
shall set the example of true poverty; when it shall be their duty to
live in poverty, as it is their duty to live in chastity; and let the
words of Christ to the Seventy-two serve them as a guide in this. Then
the Lord will surround the least of them with such honours, with such
reverence as does not to-day exist in the hearts of the people for the
princes of the Church. They will be few in number, but they will be the
light of the world. Holy Father, are they that to-day? Some among them
are, but the majority shed neither light nor darkness.”
At this point the Pontiff for the first time bowed his head in sorrowful
acquiescence.
“The fourth spirit of evil,” Benedetto continued “is the spirit of
immobility. This is disguised as an angel of light. Catholics, both
ecclesiastics and laymen, who are dominated by the spirit of immobility
believe they are pleasing God, as did those zealous Jews who caused
Christ to be crucified. All the clericals, Your Holiness, all the
religious men even, who to-day oppose progressive Catholicism, would, in
all good faith, have caused Christ to be crucified in Moses’ name. They
are worshippers of the past; they wish everything to remain unalterable
in the Church, even to the style of the pontifical language, even to the
great fans of peacocks’ feathers which offend Your Holiness’ priestly
heart, even to those senseless traditions which forbid a cardinal to go
out on foot, and make it scandalous for him to visit the poor in their
houses. It is the spirit of immobility which, by straining to preserve
what it is impossible to preserve, exposes us to the derision of
unbelievers; and this is a great sin in the eyes of God.”
The oil in the lamp was almost exhausted, the ring of shadows was
closing in, was growing deeper around and above the small circle of
light in which the two figures were outlined, confronting each other:
the white figure of the Pontiff in his chair, and Benedetto’s dark
figure standing erect.
“In opposition to this spirit of immobility,” said Benedetto, “I entreat
you not to allow Giovanni Selva’s books to be placed on the Index.”
Then, pushing the chair aside, he once more fell upon his knees, and
stretching out his hands towards the Pontiff, spoke more eagerly, more
excitedly.
“Vicar of Christ, I ask for something else. I am a sinner, unworthy to
be compared to the saints, but the Spirit of God may speak even through
the vilest mouth. As a woman once conjured the Pope to come to Rome, so
I now conjure Your Holiness to come forth from the Vatican. Come forth,
Holy Father; but the first time, at least the first time, come forth on
an errand connected with your office. Lazarus suffers and dies day by
day; go and visit Lazarus! Christ calls out for succour in all poor,
suffering human beings. From the Gallery of Inscriptions I saw the
lights shining before another palace here in Rome. If human suffering
call out in the name of Christ, there they may perhaps answer: ‘nay,’
but they go. From the Vatican the answer to Christ is: ‘yea,’ but they
do not go. What will Christ say at the terrible hour, Holy Father? These
words of mine, could the world hear them, would bring vituperation upon
me, from those who profess the greatest devotion to the Vatican; but
though they hurl vituperation and thunderbolts against me, not until the
hour of my death will I cease crying aloud: What will Christ say? What
will Christ say? To Him I appeal!”
The lamp’s tiny flame grew smaller and smaller; in the narrow circle of
pale light upon which the shadows were creeping little of Benedetto was
visible save his outstretched hands, little of the Pope was visible save
his right hand grasping the silver bell. As soon as Benedetto ceased,
the Holy Father ordered him to rise; then he rang the bell twice. The
door of the Gallery was thrown open; the trusted valet entered who had
already become popular in the Vatican, and was known as Don Teofilo.
“Teofilo,” said the Pope, “is the light turned on once more in the
Gallery?”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Then go into the library, where you will find Monsignore. Request him
to come in here, and wait for me. And see that another lamp is brought.”
When he had finished speaking, His Holiness rose. He moved towards the
door of the Gallery, signing to Benedetto to follow him. Don Teofilo
passed out by the opposite door. Sad omen! In the dark room, where so
many flaming words, inspired by the Spirit, had flashed, only the little
dying lamp remained.
That part of the Gallery of Inscriptions where the Pope and Benedetto
now found themselves was in semi-darkness. But at one end a great lamp,
with a reflector, shed its light upon the commemorative inscription
on the right of the door leading to the Loggia of Giovanni da Udine.
Between the long lines of inscriptions, which ran from one end of the
gallery to the other, and watched this dark conflict of two living
souls, like dumb witnesses well acquainted with the mysteries of that
which is beyond the grave and of the last judgment, the Pope advanced
slowly, silently, Benedetto following on his left, but a few paces
behind him. He paused a moment near the torso representing the river
Orontes, and gazed out of the window. Benedetto wondered if he were
looking at the lights of the Quirinal, and his heart beat faster as he
waited for a word. The word did not come. The Pope continued his slow,
silent walk, his hands clasped behind his back and his chin resting on
his breast. He paused again near the end of the gallery, in the light of
the great lamp, and seemed undecided whether to turn back or to proceed.
On the left of the lamp the door of the gallery opened upon a background
of night, of moonlight, columns, glass, and marble pavement. The Pope
turned in this direction, and descended the five steps. The moonlight
fell slanting upon the pavement, streaked with the black shadows of the
columns, and upon the end of the Loggia, cut off by the oblique profile
of the deeper shadow, within which the bust of Giovanni was barely
distinguishable.
The Pope walked on till he reached this shadow and paused in it, while
Benedetto, who had stopped several paces behind that he might not seem
to press him irreverently in his anxiety for an answer, was gazing at
the moon, sailing midst the great clouds above Rome. As he gazed thus
at the orb he asked himself, asked some Invisible One who might be near
him, asked even the grave, sad face of the moon herself, whether he had
dared too much, dared in the wrong way. But he repented of this doubt
immediately. Was it he himself who had spoken? No, the words had come
unsought to his lips, the Spirit had spoken. He closed his eyes in an
effort of silent prayer, his face still raised towards the moon, as
a blind man lifts his sightless eyes towards the silver splendour he
divines.
A hand touched him gently on the shoulder. He started and opened his
eyes. It was the Pope, and the expression of his face told him that at
last words had matured in his mind which satisfied it. Benedetto bent
his head respectfully, ready to listen.
“My son,” His Holiness began, “many of these things the Lord had spoken
of in my heart long ago. You--God bless you--have to deal with the Lord
alone; I have to deal also with the men the Lord has placed around me,
among whom I have to steer my course according to charity and prudence,
and above all, I must adapt my counsels, my commands, to the different
capacities, the different states of mind, of so many millions of men. I
am like a poor schoolmaster who, out of seventy scholars, has twenty who
are below the average, forty of ordinary ability, and only ten who are
really brilliant. He cannot carry on the school for the benefit of the
ten brilliant pupils alone, and I cannot govern the Church for you alone
and for those who are like you. Consider this for instance. Christ paid
tribute to the State, and I--not as the Pontiff, but as a citizen--would
gladly pay my tribute of homage, there in that palace whose lights you
saw shining, did I not fear by so doing to offend the sixty scholars, to
lose even one of those souls which are as precious to me as the others.
And it would be the same if I caused certain books to be removed from
the Index, if I called to the Sacred College certain men who have the
reputation of not being strictly orthodox, if, during an epidemic, I
should go--_ex abrupto_--to visit the hospitals of Rome.”
“Oh, Your Holiness!” Benedetto exclaimed, “forgive me, but it is not
certain that those souls, so ready to be scandalised by the Vicar of
Christ for such causes as these, will be saved at last, whereas it is
certain that very many other souls would be secured which otherwise
cannot be won over.”
“And then,” the Pope continued, as if he had not heard him, “I am old;
I am weary; the cardinals do not know whom they have placed here. I did
not wish it. I am ill also, and I know by certain signs that I must soon
appear before my Judge. I feel, my son, that you are moved by the right
spirit; but the Lord cannot exact of a poor old man like me the things
you have spoken of, things which even a young and vigorous Pontiff could
not accomplish! Still, there are some which even I, with His help, may
be able to bring about; if not the great things, at least the lesser
ones. Let us pray God to raise up at the right moment one capable of
dealing with the weightier matters, and those who may be able to help
him in the work. My son, if I were to begin to-night to transform and
rebuild the Vatican, where should I find a Raphael to adorn it with his
paintings? or even a Giovanni? Still, I do not say I can do nothing.”
Benedetto was about to reply, but the Pontiff, perhaps not wishing to
give any further explanations, afforded him neither time nor opportunity
to do so, and at once asked him a very welcome question.
“You know Selva?” said he. “What manner of man is he in private life?”
“He is a just man!” Benedetto hastened to answer. “A most just man. His
books have been denounced to the Congregation of the Index. They may,
perhaps, contain some bold opinions, but there is no comparison between
the deep, burning piety of Selva’s works and the cold and meagre
formalism of certain other books, which are more often found in the
hands of the clergy than the Gospels themselves. Holy Father, the
condemnation of Selva would be a blow directed against the most active
and vital energies of Catholicism. The Church tolerates thousands of
stupid, ascetic books which unworthily diminish the idea of God in the
human mind; let her not condemn those which magnify it!” The hour struck
in the distance; half-past nine. Silently His Holiness took Benedetto’s
hand, held it between his own, and communicated to him through that mute
pressure an understanding and approval which his prudent lips might not
utter.
He pressed the hand, shook it, caressed it, and pressed it again. At
last he said, in a stifled voice:
“Pray for me, pray that the Lord may enlighten me!”
A tear trembled in each of the beautiful, gentle eyes of the old man,
who had never wilfully soiled himself with an impure thought, who was
full of the sweetness of charity. Benedetto was so deeply moved that he
could not speak.
“Come again,” the Pope said, “We must converse together again.”
“When, Your Holiness?”
“Soon, I will summon you.”
Meanwhile the advancing shadows had engulfed the white figure and the
black one. His Holiness placed his hand on Benedetto’s shoulder and
asked him softly, almost hesitatingly:
“Do you remember the end of your vision?”
Benedetto, bowing his head, answered, also in a low tone:
“_Nescio diem, neque horam_.”
“The words are not in the manuscript,” His Holiness continued; “but do
you remember?”
Benedetto murmured:
“In the Benedictine habit, on the bare earth, in the shade of a tree.”
“Should it happen thus,” the Holy Father said gently, “I would wish to
bless you in that moment. Then I shall be awaiting you in Heaven.”
Benedetto knelt down. The Pope’s voice sounded very solemn in the
darkness:
“_Benedico te in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_.”
The Pontiff rapidly ascended the five steps, and disappeared.
Benedetto remained upon his knees, wrapt in that benediction which, it
seemed to him, had come from Christ Himself. On hearing steps in the
gallery he rose. A few moments later he was returning to the bronze
portal, accompanied by Don Teofilo.
III.
The room on the fourth floor was hardly decent. An iron bedstead, a
pedestal, a writing-desk, with a few torn and dilapidated books, a deal
chest of drawers, an iron washstand, and a few straw-bottomed chairs,
were all it contained. A suit of grey clothes was hanging from one nail,
a broad-brimmed black hat from another. Frequent flashes of lightning
could be seen through the open window; breaths of the dark, stormy night
blew in, causing the flame of the petroleum lamp on the pedestal to
flare and the light and the shadows to tremble, as they fell upon the
not too clean sheets, the two fleshless hands, the cluster of roses
lying loose between them, on the flannel shirt of the sick man, who had
pulled himself up into a sitting position, and on his deeply lined, thin
face, greyish with a month-old beard. On the other side of the poor bed
in the gloaming stood Benedetto. The sick man gazed at the flowers in
silence. His hands and his lips trembled.
He had been a monk. At thirty he had thrown off the cowl and married.
A man of little culture, of few talents, he had managed to make a poor
living for his wife and two daughters, working as a copyist. The wife
was dead, the daughters had been led astray, and now he himself was
dying slowly, there in that fourth-floor room, in Via della Marmorata,
near the corner of Via Manuzio, wasted by misery, by disease, by the
bitterness of his soul.
A sob he could not check broke from his lips. He opened his arms,
encircled Benedetto’s neck, and drew his head towards him in an embrace.
Then, suddenly, he pushed him away, and covered his face with his hands.
“I am not worthy! I am not worthy!” said he.
But now Benedetto in his turn encircled the man’s neck, kissed him, and
answered:
“Nor am I worthy of this blessing the Lord has sent me!”
“What blessing?” the sufferer inquired.
“That you weep with me!”
Having spoken these words, Benedetto drew away from the embrace, but
his gaze lingered affectionately on the old man, who stared at him
in astonishment as if asking the question: “You know all?” Benedetto
silently and gently bowed his head in assent.
The man had no suspicion that the story of his past life was known. He
had lived here three years. A neighbour, older than he, a poor little
hunchbacked woman, very charitable and pious, rendered him many
services, tended him in illness, and managed to assist him out of the
pension of two lire a day which was all she possessed. She had learned
from the concierge that the man was an unfrocked monk, and seeing how
sad, humble, and grateful he was, she prayed night and morning to the
Madonna and to all the Saints of Paradise, that they might intercede
with Jesus on his behalf, that this man might be pardoned and brought
back into the fold of the Church. She told her hopes and her fears to
other pious old women, saying:
“I myself do not dare to pray to Jesus for him; that unhappy man has
committed too great a sin against Him. He needs the prayers of some
powerful personage!”
That day the old man had said to her several times that he would be
so happy if he could have a few roses. Then the little hunchback had
thought:
“There is the holy man of whom every one is talking,--he works as a
gardener. I will go to him and tell him the whole story. I will ask him
to bring some roses, and who knows what may come of it!” Such were her
thoughts, but at once she said to herself:
“If that thought did not come to me from the Madonna, it certainly came
from St. Anthony!”
In her simple, pure heart she had felt a wave of sweetness and joy.
Without losing any time she had started for Villa Mayda, the elegant
Pompeian villa, standing out white on the Aventine, among the beautiful
palms, almost opposite the window of the old unfrocked monk. Benedetto
was about to go to bed, in obedience to the orders of the Professor,
who had found him feverish. It was the low, insidious fever which, for
several weeks, had been consuming his strength without otherwise causing
any suffering. When he had heard what the cripple had to tell, he had
come at once with the roses.
* * * * *
The old man still kept his face hidden, for he was ashamed. Presently,
without looking at Benedetto, he spoke of the roses, and explained his
longing for them. He was the son of a gardener and had himself intended
to become a gardener; but he was also fond of going to church, and all
his toys had been copies of sacred objects: little altars, candelabra,
small busts of bishops wearing mitres. His employers--very religious
people--had intimated to his parents that, if he showed a vocation for
the ecclesiastical career, they would have him educated at their own
expense. Thereupon his parents had promptly determined that he should
adopt that career. He soon discovered that his strength was not
sufficient to enable him to remain faithful to the priestly vows, but he
lacked the courage to take a step which would have caused his family the
greatest distress. Instead of that he imagined he might be safe if
he withdrew completely from the world, and so, listening to imprudent
counsellors, he entered the monastery from which he was to come forth
again later in disgrace. In after years he would sometimes allude to his
order, when jesting covertly with his friends, and say “When I was in
the regiment!” but he did not repeat that now. As a boy he had loved
flowers, but, after entering the seminary, he had thought no more about
them--thought no more about them for forty years. The night before
Benedetto’s visit he had dreamed of the big rose garden in which his
childhood had been spent. The white roses were all bending towards him,
and gazing at him in the dream-world, as pious souls gaze with curiosity
on a pilgrim in the world of shadows. They said to him: “Where are you
going? where are you going, poor friend? Why do you not return to us?”
On waking he had felt a longing for roses, a tender longing that moved
him to tears. And how many roses now lay on his bed, all through the
kindness of a saintly person, how many beautiful, sweet-smelling roses!
He was silent, gazing fixedly at Benedetto, his lips parted, his eyes
shining with a painful question: “You know, you understand, what do you
think of me? Do you believe there is hope of pardon for me?”
Benedetto, bending over the sick man, began to talk to him and caress
him. The stream of gentle words flowed on and on in a varying tone,
sometimes of joy, sometimes of pain. Now the old man seemed comforted,
now anxious questions broke from his lips; then, all of a sudden, the
gentle stream of words restored the happy look to his face. Meanwhile,
the little crippled woman came and went between her own room and her
neighbour’s door, clasping her rosary, and divided between her anxiety
at that decisive moment to get in as many _Ave Marias_ as possible,
and the desire to hear if they were talking in there and what they were
saying.
But down below, in the street, a crowd had begun to gather of people
who, regardless of the bad weather, were anxious to see the Saint of
Jenne. A woman who kept a little shop had seen him enter with his roses,
accompanied by the little hunchback. In an instant about fifty persons
were standing around the door, women for the most part, some wishing
only to see him, others eager for a word from him. They waited
patiently, speaking in low tones as if they had been in church; speaking
of Benedetto, of the miracles he performed, of the blessings they were
going to implore him to grant. A cyclist rode up, got off his machine,
and, having inquired why these people were assembled there, made them
tell him exactly where the Saint of Jenne was. Then he mounted his
bicycle once more and started off at full speed. Shortly afterwards a
close carriage--a so-called “_botte_”--followed by the same cyclist,
stopped before the door. A gentleman got out, pushed his way through the
crowd, and entered the house. The cyclist remained near the carriage.
The gentleman exchanged a few words with the concierge, whom he desired
to accompany him as far as the door, where the little hunchback stood,
trembling, and clasping her rosary. He knocked, regardless of her silent
gesticulations, as she implored the Madonna to send this intruder away.
It was Benedetto who came to open the door.
“I beg your pardon,” said the stranger, politely, “are you Signor
Maironi?”
“I no longer bear that name,” Benedetto replied, quietly, “but I once
bore it.”
“I am sorry to trouble you. I should be greatly obliged if you would
kindly come with me. I will tell you where presently.”
The sick man heard the stranger’s words, and groaned:
“No, holy man, for the love of God, do not go away!”
Benedetto replied:
“Please tell me your name, and why you wish me to go with you.”
The other seemed embarrassed.
“Well,” said he, “I am a _delegato_, an officer of the police.” The
invalid exclaimed _“Gesummaria!”_ while the terrified hunchback dropped
her rosary and stared at Benedetto, who had not been able to check a
movement of surprise.
The police officer hastened to add, smiling, that his visit was not of a
terrible nature, that he was not come to arrest any one, that he was not
giving an order, but simply an invitation.
The invitations of the police being of a special nature, Benedetto did
not think of refusing this one. He asked to be allowed to remain alone
with the sick man and the woman for five minutes, whispered something
to the man, who appeared to consent with tears in his voice, and then
taking the little hunchback aside, he told her the invalid was now
willing to see a priest, but that he could not tell when he himself
would be free to bring one to him. The poor little creature was
trembling from head to foot, partly with fear, partly with joy, and she
could only repeat over and over again: “Blessed Jesus! Holy Virgin!”
Benedetto sought to reassure her, promised to return as soon as
possible, and, having said good-bye, went down-stairs with the
_delegato_.
In the street the crowd had increased in size, and the people were
pressing noisily and threateningly round the cyclist, who had remained
near the carriage, and in whom they had recognised a policeman in
plain clothes. He would not tell them why he had come first to gather
information, and had then returned with the other individual. They tried
to force the cabman to drive away, and even talked of unharnessing the
horse. When the _delegato_ appeared with Benedetto they surrounded him,
crying: “Away with the ruffian!--Away with him!--Down with him!--Leave
that man alone!--Look out for the thieves, _per Dio!_ You take God’s
servants, and let the thieves run free!--Away with you!--Down with you!”
Benedetto came forward, motioned to them with both hands to be quiet,
and begged them over and over again to go away peacefully, for no one
wished to hurt him; he had not been arrested, but was going with this
gentleman of his own free-will. At the same moment thunder pealed in the
sky, a heavy shower began to beat on the pavement. The crowd swayed,
and rapidly dispersed. The _delegato_ gave an order to the cyclist, and
entered the carriage with Benedetto.
They started in the direction of the Tiber, in the midst of thunder,
lightning, and heavy rain. Very quietly Benedetto asked the _delegato_
what was wanted of him at the police station. He replied that it was not
a question of the station. The person who wished to speak with Signor
Maironi was a far more important functionary than the chief of police.
“Perhaps I should not have told you that,” he added, “but at any rate he
himself will tell you so.”
Then he informed Benedetto that he had sought for him in vain at Villa
Mayda, and said how vexed he would have been not to have found him soon.
Benedetto ventured to inquire if he knew the reason of this call. In
reality the delegate did not know, but he feigned a diplomatic silence,
and drew back into his corner as if to avoid the gusts of rain. A
street lamp showed Benedetto the yellow river, the great black barges of
Ripagrande; another showed him the temple of Vesta. Beyond that he could
no longer see where they were going; it seemed as if they were passing
through an unknown necropolis, a maze of funereal streets, where
sepulchral lamps were burning. At last the carriage rattled into a
courtyard, and drew up at the foot of a broad and dark stairway, flanked
with columns. Benedetto went up with the _delegato_ as far as the second
landing, on to which two doors opened. The one on the left was closed,
the one on the right looked down on the stairs through a shining
bull’s-eye window. The _delegato_ pushed it open, and he and Benedetto
entered a stuffy den, evidently a sort of anteroom. An usher, who was
dozing there, rose wearily. The _delegato_ left Benedetto, and went into
the next room. Then the usher bent down as if to pick up something, and
said to Benedetto, offering him a letter:
“See! you have dropped this paper!”
Benedetto was astonished and the usher insisted:
“You have come from the Testaccio, have you not? Well, you will find
that this belongs to you. Make haste.”
Make haste? Benedetto stared at the man, who had resumed his seat. He
stared back and confirmed his advice with a short nod which meant: You
suspect there is a mystery here, and indeed there is!
Benedetto examined the envelope. It bore the following address:
“For the Under-Gardener at Villa Mayda.” And below, in larger letters:
“IMMEDIATE.”
It was in a woman’s hand, but Benedetto did not recognize it. He opened
the letter and read:
“This is to inform you that the Director-General of Police will do his
best to induce you to leave Rome of your own free-will. Refuse. You can
read what follows at your leisure.”
Benedetto hurriedly replaced the letter, but as no one appeared, and
everything around him seemed to be asleep, he took it out again and read
on. It ran thus:
“Since your visits to the Vatican there has been much dissatisfaction
with the Holy Father. Among other things, he has withdrawn the Selva
affair from the Congregation of the Index. You can have no idea of the
intrigues which are being set on foot against you, of the calumnies
concerning you which are communicated even to your friends, and all
with the object of compelling you to leave Rome and preventing you from
seeing the Pontiff again. This conspiracy has obtained the support
of the Government by means of a promise, in return, not to ratify the
proposed nomination to the Archiepiscopal See of Turin of a person very
obnoxious to the Quirinal. Do not yield. Do not abandon the Holy Father
and your mission. The threat concerning the affair at Jenne is not
serious; it would not be possible to proceed against you, and they know
it. The person who may not write to you discovered all this, and has
asked me to write this note; she will make sure that it reaches you.
“NOEMI D’ARXEL.”
Involuntarily Benedetto looked towards the usher, as if he had suspected
him of knowing the contents of this letter which had passed through his
hands. But the usher was dozing again, and was only roused by the return
of the _delegato_, who ordered him to conduct Benedetto to the Signor
Commendatore. [Footnote: Commendatore: a title borne by those upon whom
certain Italian orders have been conferred.--_Translator’s Note_.]
Benedetto was introduced into a spacious apartment, all dark save in
one corner, where a gentleman about fifty years of age sat reading the
_Tribuna_ by the light of an electric lamp, which shone upon his bald
head, upon the newspaper, and upon the table, littered with documents.
Above him, in the dim light, a large portrait of the King was dimly
visible.
He did not at once raise his head--heavy with conscious power--from
the newspaper. He raised it when he felt inclined to do so, and looked
carelessly at this atom of the people who stood before him.
“Be seated,” he said in a frigid tone.
Benedetto obeyed.
“You are Signor Maironi?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am sorry to have troubled you, but it was necessary.”
There was harshness and sarcasm underlying the Signor Commendatore’s
courteous words.
“By the way,” he said, “why are you not called by your real name?”
Benedetto did not answer this unexpected question at once.
“Well, well,” his interlocutor continued. “It is not of much importance
at present. We are not in a court of justice. I hold that if one is
going to do good, it is best to do it in one’s own name. But then I do
not go to church, and my views differ from yours. However, as I said
before, it is of no importance. Do you know who I am? Did the _delegato_
tell you?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well, then; I am a functionary of the State, who takes some
interest in the public security, and who has a certain amount of
power--yes, a certain amount of power. Now I am going to prove to you
that I take an interest in you also. I regret to say, you are in a
critical position, my dear Signor Maironi, or Signor Benedetto, at your
choice. An accusation of a really serious nature has been lodged
against you with the judicial authorities, and I see that not only your
reputation for saintliness is in danger, but also your personal liberty,
and hence your preaching, at least for several years.”
A flame spread over Benedetto’s face, and his eyes flashed.
“Leave the saintliness and the reputation alone,” said he.
The august functionary of the State continued, unmoved:
“I have wounded you. But you must know that your reputation for
saintliness is threatened by other dangers. Other things are said about
you which have nothing to do with the penal code,--you may be quite
easy on that score--but which are not in perfect harmony with Catholic
morals. I assure you these things are believed by many. I am simply
stating the facts; it is really no business of mine. After all,
saintliness is never a reality; it is always more or less an
idealisation of the image by the mirror. If there is saintliness
anywhere, it is in the mirror, in the people who believe in the saints.
I myself do not believe in them. But let us come to serious matters. I
was obliged to say some unpleasant things to you, I even wounded you;
now I will apply the remedy. I am not a believer, but, nevertheless, I
appreciate the religious principle as an element of public order, and
this is also the view taken by my superiors and the view taken by
the Government itself. Therefore the Government cannot approve of
proceedings of such a scandalous nature against one whom the people
regard as a saint, proceedings which might possibly stir up disorder.
But that is not all! We know that you stand in high favour with the
Pope, who sees you often. Now the ‘powers that be’ have no desire to
cause the Pope any personal annoyance. They have the good intention to
spare him this unpleasantness if possible. And it will be possible on
one condition. Here in Rome you have active enemies--not on our side,
not on the Liberal side, you know!--who are scheming to ruin you
completely, to rob you of your reputation and everything. If you wish to
know my opinion exactly, I will tell you that I think, from a Catholic
point of view, they are right. I modify somewhat, for my use and for
theirs, the famous motto of the Jesuits, _‘Aut sint ut sunt,’_ and I
make it, _‘Aut non erunt.’_ They tell me you are a Liberal Catholic.
That simply means that you are not a Catholic. But let us proceed. Your
enemies have denounced you to the Public Prosecutor, and it would be
our duty to send the _carabinieri_ to arrest Signor Pietro Maironi,
condemned, in his absence, by the Assize Court at Brescia, for having
failed to serve on a jury when summoned. But that is a slight matter.
You imagine you healed some people at Jenne, and you are accused not
only of practising medicine unlawfully, but even of having poisoned
a patient--nothing less! Now we have the means of saving you. We will
manage to hush up this accusation. But if you remain in Rome, your
enemies here will make so much noise that it will be impossible for us
to feign deafness. You must go away to some distant place, and go at
once! It would be better to go out of Italy. Try France, where there is
a famine of saintliness. Or, at least--do you not own a house on Lake
Lugano? There are some sisters in it now, are there not? Sisters and
saints go extremely well together. Join the sisters, and let this storm
blow over.”
The Commendatore spoke very slowly, very seriously, hiding his irony
under an indifference which was even more insolent.
Benedetto rose, resolute and severe.
“I was with a sick man,” he said, “who needed my illegal medicine. It
would have been better to leave me at my post. You and the Government
are my worst enemies if you offer me the means to fly from justice.
Perform your duty by sending the _carabinieri_ to arrest me for not
serving on the jury. I will prove that it was impossible for me to
have received the summons. Let the Public Prosecutor do his duty by
proceeding against me on the strength of the affair at Jenne; you will
always find me at Villa Mayda. Tell your superiors this: tell them that
I shall not stir from Rome, that I fear only one Judge, and let them
fear Him also in their false hearts, for He will be more terrible
against falseness of heart than against honest violence!”
The Commendatore, who had not been prepared for this blow, grew livid
with impotent rage, and was about to burst into a torrent of angry words
when the dull rumble of a carriage was heard entering the courtyard. He
looked away from Benedetto and listened. Benedetto grasped the back
of his chair that he might not be tempted to turn his back on him. The
other man roused himself; the angry light, which for a moment had died
down, blazed forth again in his eyes. He threw aside the newspaper which
he had held in his hand all the time, and bringing his fist down heavily
upon the table, he exclaimed:
“What are you doing? Do not dare to move!”
The two men looked at each other fixedly for a few seconds in silence,
one with a look of majestic authority, the other stern and forbidding.
The official continued violently:
“Shall I have you arrested here?”
Benedetto was still looking at him in silence; at length he answered:
“I am waiting. Do as you please.”
An usher, who had knocked several times in vain, now appeared on
the threshold and bowed to the Commendatore without speaking. The
Commendatore answered at once: “I am coming,” and, rising hastily,
left the room with a strange expression on his face, where anger was
disappearing, and obsequiousness was dawning.
The usher returned immediately, and told Benedetto to wait.
A quarter of an hour passed. Benedetto, shivering, his heart in a
tumult, his head on fire, excited and exhausted by fever, had once
more sunk upon his chair, while the most disconnected thoughts whirled
through his brain. May God forgive this man! Forgive them all! What joy
if the Pontiff should forbid the condemnation of Selva! How does the
person who may not write to me know? And now, why are they keeping me
waiting? What more can they want with me? Oh! what if with this fever I
should no longer be master of my thoughts or of my words? How terrible!
My God, my God, do not permit that! But what horrible baseness there is
in the world, what shameful, hidden fornication between these people
of the Church and of the State, who hate each other, who despise each
other! Why, why dost Thou permit it, Lord? Still no one comes! This
fever! My God, my God! let me remain master of my thoughts, of my words.
God of Truth! Thy servant is in the hands of his conspiring enemies:
give him strength to glorify Thee, even in the burning fire! Those two
persons are thinking of me now. I must not think of them! They are not
sleeping, but thinking of me! I am not ungrateful, not ungrateful; but
I must not think of them! I will think of thee, venerable Saint of the
Vatican, who sleepest and knowest not! Ah! those narrow stairs which
I shall never more ascend! That sweet face, full of the Holy Spirit, I
shall never see again! Still--God be praised!--I did not behold it in
vain! What am I doing here? Why do I not go away? But could I go away?
Oh! this fever!
He rose, and tried to read the hour on the round face of a clock which
showed white in the darkness. It was five minutes to eleven. Outside,
the thunder-storm still raged. The power of the maddened elements, the
power of time which was pushing the tiny hands there on the face of the
clock, seemed friendly to Benedetto, in their indifferent predominance
over the human power, in whose stronghold he was, and which held him at
its mercy. But the fever, the ever-increasing fever! He was burning with
thirst. If only he could open a window, hold out his mouth to the waters
of heaven!
An electric bell sounded, and at last he hears steps in the anteroom.
Here is the Commendatore, in his hat and overcoat. He closes the door
behind him, gathers up the papers lying on the table, and says to
Benedetto, with a disdainful air:
“Mark this. We give you three days in which to leave Rome. Do you
understand?” Without even waiting for an answer, he pressed a bell. The
usher entered, and he commanded:
“Show him out!”
* * * * *
On reaching the great stairway with his guide, Benedetto, believing
himself free to descend, begged for a little water.
“Water?” the usher replied. “I cannot go for it now. His Excellency is
waiting. Please step this way.”
To Benedetto’s’ great astonishment, he invited him to enter the lift.
“Both their Excellencies,” said the usher, correcting himself, and, as
the lift ascended to the second floor, he looked at Benedetto as at one
about to receive a great honour which he does not appear to deserve.
When they reached the second floor, the two traversed an immense hall
dimly lighted. From this hall Benedetto was shown into an apartment so
brilliantly illumined as to cause him discomfort and suffering, and he
was nearly blinded.
Two men, seated in the two corners of a large sofa, were waiting for
him, each in a different attitude, the younger with his hands in his
pockets, his legs crossed, and his head leaning against the back of the
couch; the elder with his body bent forward, and continuously stroking
his grey beard, first with one hand and then with the other. The
first individual had a sarcastic expression, the second a searching,
melancholy, kindly one. The latter, who evidently possessed the greater
authority of the two, invited Benedetto to be seated in an easy-chair,
opposite to him.
“You must not think, dear Signor Maironi,” said he in a voice both
harmonious and deep, and which seemed, in a way, to correspond with the
melancholy look in his eyes, “you must not think that we are here as two
powerful arms of the State. We are here, at the present moment, as
two individuals of a very rare species, two statesmen who know
their business well, and who despise it still more. We are two great
idealists, who know how to lie in a most ideal manner to those who
deserve nothing better, and who also know how to adore Truth; two
democrats, but nevertheless two adorers of that recondite Truth which
has never been touched by the dirty hands of old Demos.”
Having spoken thus, the man of the flowing grey beard once more began to
stroke it, first with one hand, then with the other, and, puckering his
eyes, which sparkled with a shrewd smile, for he was pleased with his
own words, watched for surprise on Benedetto’s face.
“We are, moreover, believers also,” he continued.
The other personage, without raising his head from the back of the
couch, lifted his open hands, and said, almost solemnly:
“Steady!” “Let the word pass, my dear friend,” the first speaker said,
without looking towards him. “We are both believers, but in different
ways. I believe in God with all my might, and my might is great, and
I shall have Him with me always, You believe in God, with all your
weaknesses, and they are few, and you will not have Him with you until
you are upon your death-bed.”
Another shrewd and self-complacent smile, another pause. The friend
shook his head, raising his eyebrows as if he had heard a jest deserving
only of commiseration, but not of an answer.
“I, for my part,” the deep and harmonious voice went on, “am also a
Christian. Not a Catholic, but a Christian. Indeed, because I am a
Christian am an anti-Catholic. My heart is Christian, and my brain
is Protestant. It is with joy that I see in Catholicism signs, not of
decrepitude, but of putrefaction. Charity is being dissolved in the most
sincerely Catholic hearts into a dark mud, full of the worms of hatred.
I see Catholicism cracking in many places, and I see the ancient
idolatry upon which it has raised itself bursting forth through the
cracks. What few youthful, healthy, and vital energies appear within it,
all tend to separate from it. I know that you are a radical Catholic,
that you are the friend of a man who is really sound and strong, and
who calls himself a Catholic, but who is pronounced a heretic by true
Catholics; and a heretic he certainly is. I have been told you are a
pupil of this noble heretic, who labours for reforms and who, at the
same time, tries to influence the Pontiff. Now, I myself am looking
for a great reformer, but he must be an antipope; not antipope in the
narrow, historical sense, but an antipope in the Lutheran sense of the
word. Curiosity pricks us to know in what way you believe it possible to
rejuvenate this poor old Papacy, of which we laymen are ahead not only
in the conquest of civilisation, but also in the science of God, even in
the science of Christ, this Papacy which follows us at a great distance,
panting and stopping by the way every now and then, hanging back like an
animal which smells the shambles, and then, when it is pulled very hard,
jumping forward, only to stop again until the rope is twitched once
more. Explain your idea of Catholic reform to us. Let us hear it.”
Benedetto remained silent.
“Speak,” continued the unknown deity who appeared to reign in that
place. “My friend is not Herod, nor am I Pilate. We might perhaps both
become apostles of your idea.”
His friend once more extended his wide-open hands, without raising his
head from the sofa-back, and said again, with a stronger accent on the
first syllable:
“Steady!”
Benedetto was silent.
“It appears to me, _caro mio_,” said the friend, turning his head alone
towards his colleague, “that this promises to be the first time your
eloquence has failed you. Here the model of the _nihil respondit_ is
taken very seriously.”
Benedetto shuddered, horrified at this allusion to the Divine Master,
and the fear of seeming a presumptuous imitator. At that moment he
ceased to feel his illness--the fever, the thirst, the heaviness of his
head.
“Oh, no!” he exclaimed, “now I will answer! You say you are not Pilate.
But the truth is that I am the least of Christ’s servants, because
I have been unfaithful to Him, and you repeat to me Pilate’s very
words:--_Quid est veritas?_ Now you are not disposed to receive truth,
as Pilate was not disposed to receive it.”
“Oh!” his interlocutor exclaimed. “And why not?”
His friend laughed noisily.
“Because,” Benedetto replied, “he who performs deeds of darkness is
surrounded by darkness, and the light cannot reach him. You perform
deeds of darkness. It is not difficult to understand; you are the
Minister of the Interior--I know you by reputation. You were not born
to perform deeds of darkness; there has been much light in some of your
deeds, there is much light in your soul, much light of truth and of
kindness; but at this moment you are performing a deed of darkness. I am
here to-night because you have entered into a shameful bargain. You say
you adore Truth, and you ask a brother if he possess Truth, while you
hide the fact that you have already sold him!”
During Benedetto’s speech, the Minister’s friend--himself an Excellency,
but of lower rank--had raised his head from the couch at last. He seemed
to be only now beginning to consider the man and what he was saying
worthy of attention. He also seemed amused at the lesson his chief had
received. He admired his friend’s great genius, but scoffed in his heart
at his passing fits of idealism. The chief was at first amazed; then he
started to his feet, shouting like a madman:
“You are a liar! You are insolent! You do not deserve my kindness! I
have not sold you, you are not worth anything; I will give you away! Go!
Go away!”
He looked for the button of the electric bell, and not finding it in the
blindness of his rage, he shrieked:
“Usher! Usher!”
The Under-Secretary of State, who was used to these scenes--they were
nothing worse than “fires of straw,” for the Minister had a heart of
gold--at first laughed in his sleeve. When, however, he heard his friend
call the usher in that tone, knowing well the indiscretion of ushers
and how much dangerous gossip might arise from this incident, reflecting
ridicule also on himself, he resolutely restrained the Minister, almost
commanding him to calm himself. Then he said sharply to Benedetto:
“Go, at once!” The Minister began to walk up and down the room in
silence, his head bowed, with short, hurried steps, struggling to
conquer the child in him, which would have liked to stamp its feet.
Benedetto did not obey. Erect and severe, glowing with the invisible
rays of a dominating spirit, which kept the Under-Secretary of State at
a distance, he forced the other, through this magnetic power, to turn
towards him, to stop and to look him in the face.
“_Signor Ministro_,” he said. “I am about to leave not only this palace,
but very soon, I believe, this world also. I shall not see you again;
listen to me for the last time. You are not now disposed to receive
the Truth; nevertheless, the Truth is at your door, and the hour will
come--it is not far distant, for your life is on the wane--when night
will fall upon you, upon all your power, all your honours, all your
ambitions. Then you will hear Truth calling out in the night. You can
answer ‘Begone’--and you will never meet her again. You can answer
‘Enter’--and you will see her appear, veiled, and breathing sweetness
through her veil. You do not now know what you will answer, nor do I
know, nor does any one in the world. Prepare yourself, by good works, to
give the right answer. Whatever your errors may be there is religion in
your soul. God has given you much power in this world; use it to good
purpose. You who were born a Catholic say you are a Protestant. Perhaps
you do not know Catholicism well enough to understand that Protestantism
is being shattered upon the dead Christ, while Catholicism evolves by
virtue of the living Christ. But now I speak to the statesman, not,
indeed, to implore him to protect the Catholic Church, which would be
a misfortune, but to tell him that though the State may not be either
Catholic or Protestant, neither may it ignore God, and you dare to
ignore Him in more than one of your schools, in those you call high, and
this in the name of freedom of science, which you confound with freedom
of thought and of speech; for thought and speech are free to deny God,
but the negation of God neither partakes nor can partake of the nature
of science, and you are bound to teach science alone. You are well
acquainted with that petty statesmanship which forces you to a private
compromise with your conscience, in order to obtain in secret some
favour from the Vatican, in which you do not believe, but you are ill
acquainted with that grand statesmanship which upholds the authority
of Him who is the eternal principle of all justice. You work harder to
destroy it than the atheistic professors themselves; for, after all, the
atheistic professors have but little power; you statesmen, who sometimes
talk of your belief in God, you undermine His authority far more deeply
than those professors, by the bad example of your practical atheism.
You who imagine you believe in the Godhead of Christ are, in reality,
prophets and priests of the false gods. You serve them, as the
idolatrous Hebrew princes served them, in high places, in the presence
of the people. You serve, in the high places, the gods of all earthly
lusts.”
“_Bravo_!” interrupted the Minister, who was well known for the
austerity of his life, his domestic virtues, and his carelessness
concerning money. “You amuse me!”
And he added, turning to his friend:
“It was really not worth while.”
“Understand me well!” Benedetto continued. “Yes, you also are one of
these priests. Do I then speak of ordinary revellers? I speak of you and
of others like you, who esteem yourselves honest men because you do not
plunge your hands into the coffers of the State, who esteem yourselves
moral men because you do not give yourselves up to the pleasures of the
senses. I will tell you two things: All the while you are worshipping
pleasures which are still more sinful. You make false gods of yourselves
unto yourselves; you worship the pleasure of contemplating yourselves in
all your power, in all your honours, in the admiration of the world.
To your false gods you wickedly sacrifice many human victims, and the
integrity of your own character. There is a compact among you by which
each is bound to respect his colleague’s false god, and promote its
worship. The purest among you are at least guilty of this complicity.
You look away when there is a suggestion of foul conspiracies with vile
aims, or of the shameful intrigues of factions which crawl in the dark,
letting them go by in silence. You regard yourselves as incorrupt, and
you corrupt others! You distribute the public money regularly to people
who sell you their honour and the probity of their consciences. You
despise and you nurture this infamy, which goes on under the shadow of
your authority. It is more sinful to buy votes and flattery than to
sell them! You are the most corrupt of all! Your second sin is that you
consider lying a necessity of your position; you lie as you would drink
water. You lie to the people, lie to the Parliament, lie to the Crown,
lie to your adversaries, lie to your friends. I know--some of you do not
personally indulge in the general prevarication, but you tolerate it in
your colleagues. Many of you shrink from assuming this on entering the
seat of government, as, upon entering a mine, we put on a dirty dress to
protect our own and, on coming out, lay it down joyfully. But can
these, who are the best, call themselves faithful servants of Truth? You
believe in God, and perhaps on your death-bed you will believe you have
offended God most seriously, as statesmen, by your acts of violence
against the Church, in the name of the State. No, these will not be your
greatest sins. If men go into Parliament, and through Parliament into
the Government, who profess, as philosophers, not to know God, but who
rise up in the name of Truth against this arbitrary tyranny of Untruth,
they are serving God better than you and will be more pleasing to God
than you, who believe in Him as an idol and not as the Spirit of Truth,
than you who dare to talk of the putrefaction of Catholicism, you who
stink of falsity. Yes, who stink of it! You make the air of the heights
so impure, so contrary to what it should be, that it is difficult to
breathe it. You have a devout heart, _Signor Ministro_; do not tell me
that in this palace one cannot serve God.”
“Do you know--” the Minister exclaimed angrily, crossing his arms
upon his breast, while the Under-Secretary of State extended his hand
graciously towards him to check the indignant words.
“Gently, gently, gently!” said he. “Allow me. I find this most
entertaining.”
The Under-Secretary of State was short and round, and full of respect
for his own secretaryship, like an egg in the conscious possession of
a sacred chick. As a man he was far inferior to the Minister, and very
unlike him. He had none of the intellectual curiosity of his superior,
and had consented to be present at this interview simply to please him.
His superior, possessed of a keen wit, was in the habit of throwing his
own light now on one, now on another of the persons who revolved around
him, and, at such moments, lie was apt to believe that they shone of
themselves, as perhaps the sun may believe is the case with the orbs
that pay their court to it. The Under-Secretary of State reflected
light upon the Minister, and the Minister reflected admiration upon the
Under-Secretary of State. The Minister had desired his presence at this
interview, not comprehending that this little Mercury of his planetary
system, having resolved in his youth to free himself from the
supernatural, which hampered the most spontaneous movements of his
selfish nature, had come to hate the supernatural with much the same
hatred which the sick conceive for the man who, they know, has gloomily
diagnosed their illness. As these unfortunates seek to persuade
themselves that the prophet is not worthy of faith, and, whilst his
prophecy is gradually being fulfilled, become more and more impatient,
and struggle ever harder to overthrow that threatening authority,
so this man, the more he felt his youthful vigour declining, felt
materialistic dogmas losing credit, and from time to time perceived in
his heart certain stabbing apprehensions of a formidable truth which,
wakened by degrees, became the more embittered in his hatred hidden
beneath careless irony.
“Look here, my good sir,” said he, when he had, by his words and
gesture, made room for himself in the conversation. “You talk a great
deal about false and true gods. I don’t know whether yours be false or
true. He may be true, but He is certainly unreasonable. A God who made
the world as he chose, in such a way that it must wag as it does,
and then comes and tells us that we must make it wag in a different
way--well now, you know! He is certainly not a reasonable God! You have
taken the liberty to empty out a whole bagful of abuse, a bagful of
accusations against statesmen; they are calumnies, especially if you
apply them to that gentleman over there, or to me; but I am willing to
admit that politics are not a suitable business for saints. He who made
the world did not intend that they should be! He is to blame for that.
Nevertheless, some one must attend to politics. At present we are doing
this, and if we ourselves be not saints, at least you see how patiently
we deal with saints. And listen,”
The Under-Secretary looked at his watch.
“It is getting late,” he said, “and saintliness may encounter some
dangers, at such a late hour, in the streets of Rome. You had better go,
now.”
He stretched out his hand towards the electric bell, meaning to summon
the usher.
“_Signor Ministro!_” Benedetto exclaimed, with such vehemence that the
Under-Secretary remained motionless, his arm extended, as though frozen
in the act. “You fear for the State, for the Monarchy, for liberty,
you fear the socialists and the anarchists, but you should be far more
afraid of your colleagues, who scoff at God! for socialism and anarchism
are merely fevers, while scoffing is even as gangrene! As for you,” he
added, turning to the Under-Secretary, “you deride One who is silent.
Fear His silence!”
Before either of the two potentates could speak a word, or move,
Benedetto had left the room.
* * * * *
He descended the great stairway, all quivering with the reflex action of
the words which had burst from his heart, and with the feverish fire
in his blood. His legs shook and bent under him. He was once or twice
obliged to seize the banisters and stop. On reaching the last column,
he leaned his throbbing forehead against it, seeking its coolness. But
immediately he drew away, with a feeling of repugnance for the very
stones of this palace, as if they were infected by treason, were
accomplices of the atrociously vile bargain which had been struck there
between ministers of Christ and ministers of the State. He sat down on
one of the lower steps, quite exhausted, without noticing the lighted
lamps of a carriage which was waiting close to him, doubtless the
Minister’s carriage, and not caring who might see him. He breathed more
freely; his indignation was beginning to cool down and turn to sorrow,
and a desire to weep for the sad blindness of the world. Then he began
to feel so lonely, so bitterly lonely. Only she, the partner of his past
errors, had watched, had discovered, had acted. Only through her had
he been able to hold his own with the Minister, knowing what manner of
language to use with him. His other friends, the friends devoted to his
religious ideas, had slept, and were still sleeping. The bitter thought
that they no longer cared for him was pleasing to him. It was pleasant
to give himself up, for once at least, to pity for his own fate, for
once to drain the cup to the dregs, to picture his fate even more
painful and bitter than it really was. All were against him, all were
in league against him! Alone, alone, alone! And was he really strong
at heart? That man up there, that Minister who possessed genius
and personal kindliness--what if he were right, after all? What if
Catholicism were really past healing? Lo! the Lord Himself, the Lord
he had served, the Lord who had struck down his body, and delivered him
into the power of his enemies, now was abandoning his soul. Anguish,
mortal anguish! He longed to die on that very spot and to be at peace.
Above him he heard the voices of the Minister and the Under-Secretary,
who were coming down. Benedetto rose with an effort, and dragged himself
into the street. On the left, a few paces beyond the door, he saw
another carriage waiting. A servant in livery stood on the sidewalk
talking with the coachman. When Benedetto appeared the servant hastened
towards him. In the gaslight, Benedetto recognised the old Roman from
Villa Diedo, the footman of the Dessalles. It suddenly flashed across
his troubled brain that Jeanne was there in the carriage, waiting for
him, and he started back a step.
“No,” said he. Meanwhile the carriage had moved forward; Benedetto
imagined he saw Jeanne, that he was being forced to get into the
carriage with her, and that he had not the strength to resist. Seized
with giddiness he staggered back again, and would have fallen had the
footman not caught him in his arms. He found himself in the carriage
without knowing how he had got there, with an unpleasant bright light
opposite to him, and a loud buzzing in his ears. Little by little he
understood. He was alone; an acetylene lamp was shining in his face. The
door on his right was open and the footman was speaking to him. What was
he saying? Where should they drive? To Villa Mayda? Yes, certainly, to
Villa Mayda. Could not that light be extinguished? The servant put it
out, and spoke of a paper. What paper? A paper the Signora had placed
in the inside pocket of the _coupé_, ordering him to give it to the
gentleman. Benedetto did not understand, or see. The footman took the
paper and slipped it into Benedetto’s pocket. Then he inquired about the
gentleman’s health, as his masters--this time he said ‘his masters’--had
ordered him to do. If he had seen him lying dead this scrupulous
individual would have carried out the order just the same. Instead of
answering, Benedetto begged that a little water might be brought to him.
The footman fetched some from a neighbouring _café_ and Benedetto drank
it eagerly, experiencing great relief. As he took the empty cup from
him, the footman thought it best to complete his message:
“The Signora ordered me to tell you, if you inquired, that they sent the
carriage because they knew you were not well, and they thought that in
this place and at this hour it would be impossible for you to find one.”
* * * * *
The _coupé_ had excellent springs and rubber tires. What a rest it
was for Benedetto to roll along thus, silently, alone in a dark soft
carriage, in the heart of the night! From time to time vistas of bright
streets loomed on the right and on the left, and this was painful
to him, as if those long rows of lights had been his enemies. But
immediately there came back the darkness of the narrow streets and the
flight, on footpaths and houses, of the unsteady lights of the _coupé_.
The coachman set the horse to a walking pace, and Benedetto looked out
into the darkness. It seemed to him they had just begun to ascend the
Aventine Hill. He felt better; the fever, intensified by the physical
and moral strain of that night of strife, was now rapidly decreasing.
Then, for the first time, he perceived the subtle perfume of the
_coupé_, the perfume Jeanne always used, and there rushed upon him the
vivid memory of the return from Praglia with her, of the moment when,
having left her at the foot of the hill leading to Villa Diedo, he had
gone on alone in the victoria which was still filled with her warmth and
her perfume, alone, and intoxicated with his love secret. Terrified at
the vividness of these memories he pressed his arms to his breast, and
strove to withdraw himself from his senses and his memory, into the very
centre of his being. He gasped, with parted lips, unable to banish
that image from his inner vision. And others flashed through his mind,
leaving his unyielding will unconquered, but causing it to tremble like
a tightly drawn rope. Now it was the idea that only Jeanne really loved
him, that only Jeanne suffered through his suffering. Now it was her
voice, complaining that her love was not returned, her voice asking for
love, in the tones of a little song by Saint-Saens, so sweet, so sad,
and familiar to them both, and concerning which he had once said to her
at Villa Diedo that he could never refuse anything to one who prayed
thus. Now it was the idea of fleeing far, far away and for ever, from
this pagan and pharisaical Rome. Again it was a vision of peace and pure
converse with the woman whom he would win over to the faith at last. It
was an ardent desire to say to the Lord:--“The world is too sad, let me
adore Thee thus.” Then there came the thought that in all this there was
no sin, there was no sin in abandoning his mission in the presence of
so many enemies. He began to doubt whether he really had any mission
at all, whether he had not rather yielded to deceitful suggestions,
believed in the reality of phantoms, and been deceived by chance
appearances. He saw the spiritual and moral features of his friends
and disciples, deformed as in a convex mirror; he felt a disheartening
certainty that all he had hoped of them was vain. Then again that sad,
tender little song returned, no longer beseeching but full of pity, of
a pity comprehending all his bitter struggle, the sorrowing pity of
some unknown spirit that was also suffering and complaining of God, but
humbly, gently, pleading for all that suffers and loves in the world.
The carriage stopped at a cross-way, and the footman got down from
the box and approached the window. It seemed that neither he nor the
coachman knew exactly where this Villa Mayda was. On the right, a narrow
lane sloped down between two walls. Behind the higher one, on the left,
huge black trees rustled loudly in the west wind, which had torn the
clouds asunder. In the background, the Janiculum and St. Peter’s loomed
black in the pale starlight. It was a narrow footpath. Was that where
the Signore must get out to go to Villa Mayda? No, but the Signore was
determined to get out at any cost, to quit that poisoned carriage. He
dragged himself as far as Sant’ Anselmo, struggling with his poor weak
body and with the wind. Exhausted once more, he thought of asking the
monks for hospitality, but did not do so. He went down, skirting the
great silent refuge of peace belonging to the Benedictines, passed,
sighing, before the closed door, which said in vain _quieti et amicis_,
and at last reached the gate of Villa Mayda.
The gardener came, half dressed, to open the gate, and was greatly
astonished to see him. He said he had believed he was in prison, because
a _delegato_ and a policeman had been there to look for him at about
nine o’clock. Indeed the _Signora_, the Professor’s daughter-in-law, had
at once ordered the servants not to admit him if he returned, but the
order had been angrily countermanded by the Professor himself, to the
great joy of the gardener, who was as fond of Benedetto and of the
master as he was averse to the _Signora_. Upon hearing this Benedetto
would have departed at once had his strength allowed him. But he was not
in a condition to go a hundred paces.
“It will be for this one night only,” he said.
He occupied a small room in the gardener’s little house. He had hoped,
on entering it, to find the peace of the heart, but it was not to be.
They were driving him away even from here: that was what he said in his
heart to his poor little bed, to the poor furniture, to the few books,
to the smoky tallow-candle. Fixing his eyes on the Crucifix, which hung
above a footstool at the side of the bed, he groaned, with an effort of
his will: “How can I complain so bitterly of my crosses, Lord?”
In vain; his spirit had no living sense either of Christ or of the
Cross. He sat down in despair, not wishing to go to bed in this mood,
waiting for a drop of sweetness, which did not come. A gust of wind made
him turn his head towards the window, which had burst open. He saw a
great planet tip there in the brilliant sky, above the black battlements
of Porta San Paolo, and the black summit of the pyramid of Cestio,
above the tops of the cypresses which surround the tomb of Shelley. The
wind howled around the little house. Oh! that night in the asylum, where
his wife was dying, and the shrieks of the violent patients, and the
great planet!
Bending his head, heavy with grief, he happened to notice the paper
which the footman had placed in his pocket. It was a large black-edged
envelope. He opened it, and read the name and titles of his poor old
mother-in-law, the Marchesa Nene Seremin, and the simple words that
followed:
“IN PEACE.”
He was as one turned to stone, holding the open, sheet in his hand, his
eyes fixed on the words. Then his hands began to tremble, and from his
hands trembling rose to his breast, growing more and more violent till a
storm of tears burst from his eyes.
He wept as many memories came to his mind, some sad, some sweet, brought
back to him by the poor dead woman. He wept with his eyes fixed upon the
crucifix, upon Christ, to whom in her last moments she surely yielded
herself up with the fullest confidence, like that other dear one, like
his Elisa; he wept in gratitude to her, who even from that unknown world
was kind to him, and softened his heart. He recalled the last words he
had heard her speak: “Then shall we never meet again?” In his prophetic
soul he smiled, turned to the open window, and gazed upon the great
planet.