The Saint Part 35

"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 pa.s.sing 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 b.u.t.ton 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. G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, but the negation of G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.dhead of Christ are, in reality, prophets and priests of the false G.o.ds. 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 G.o.ds of all earthly l.u.s.ts."

"_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 G.o.ds 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 G.o.ds 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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.suming 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 G.o.d, and perhaps on your death-bed you will believe you have offended G.o.d 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 G.o.d, but who rise up in the name of Truth against this arbitrary tyranny of Untruth, they are serving G.o.d better than you and will be more pleasing to G.o.d 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 G.o.d."

"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 G.o.ds. I don't know whether yours be false or true. He may be true, but He is certainly unreasonable. A G.o.d 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 G.o.d! 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 G.o.d! 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 _coupe_, 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 _cafe_ 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 _coupe_ 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 _coupe_.

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 _coupe_, 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 G.o.d, 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, pa.s.sed, 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 Sh.e.l.ley. 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 t.i.tles 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 grat.i.tude 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.

CHAPTER VIII. JEANNE

A small band of workmen was coming towards Via della Marmorata, It was about noon, and they had been at work on a house in course of construction in Via Galvani. Seeing little groups of people standing under the trees, other little groups at the doors, and people also at the windows of the two last houses on the right and left, a workman, who was following the others at a short distance, called out in a loud voice to his companions: