Chapter VII · IN THE WHIRLPOOL OF THE WORLD

It was already growing dark when a private carriage stopped at the door of a house in Via della Vite in Rome. Two ladies alighted, and quickly disappeared within the gloomy entrance, while the carriage drove away. Presently another carriage arrived, deposited two more ladies before the same gloomy door, and in its turn rolled away. Thus, within a quarter of an hour, five carriages drove up, and no less than twelve female figures were engulfed by the dark portal. The narrow street then relapsed into its usual quiet. In about half an hour groups of men began to appear, coming from the Corso. They paused before the same door, read the number by the light of a neighbouring street-lamp, and then entered. In this manner about forty persons more were engulfed by the gloomy portal The last arrivals were two priests. The one who tried to read the number was near-sighted, and could not make it out. His companion said to him, laughing:

“Go in, go in! There is an odour of Luther in the air; it must be here!” The first priest entered the evil-smelling darkness. By a black and dirty stair they mounted up, up, towards a small oil lamp, burning on the fourth floor. On reaching the third floor they struck a match to read the names upon the door-plates. A voice called out from above:

“Here, gentlemen, here!”

An affable young man in a dark morning suit came down to meet them. He showed them great deference, said the others were waiting for them, and conducted them through an ante-room and a passage almost as dark as the stairway itself, to a large room, full of people, and dimly lighted by four candles and two old oil lamps. The young man apologised for the darkness, saying his parents would tolerate neither the electric light, nor gas, nor petroleum. All the men who had arrived in groups were assembled here. Three or four wore clerical dress. The others, with the exception of an old man with a red face and a white beard, seemed to be students. There were no women present. All were standing save the old man, who was evidently an important personage. Conversation was being carried on in low tones. The room was full of whisperings, like the murmur of tiny rivulets and falling drops in a cave. When the two priests had entered the young host said:

“We are ready!”

Those forming, the central group fell back in a circle, and Benedetto appeared in their midst. A small table with two candles upon it, and a chair, had been prepared for his use. He begged that the candles might be removed. Then he was dissatisfied with the table. Saying he was weary, he asked to be allowed to speak seated on the sofa, beside the old man with the flushed face and the white beard. Benedetto was dressed in black, and was paler and thinner than at Jenne. His hair had receded from his forehead, which had acquired something of the solemn aspect of the brow of Don Giuseppe Flores. His eyes had become a still brighter blue. Many of the faces turned eagerly towards him seemed more fascinated by those eyes and that brow than anxious to hear his words. Making no gestures, his hands resting on his knees, be began speaking as follows:

“I must first state to whom I speak, for not all here present are of one mind concerning Christ and the Church. I do not address my remarks to the ecclesiastics; I believe and hope they are not in need of my words. Neither do I speak to this gentleman seated beside me, for I know he does not need my words. I speak to no one who is firmly grounded in the Catholic faith. I address myself solely to those young men who wrote to me in the following terms.”

He took out a letter and read:

“‘We were educated in the Catholic faith, and on attaining manhood we—by an act of our own free will—accepted its most arduous mysteries; we have laboured in the faith, both in the administrative and social field; but now another mystery rises in our way, and our faith falters before it. The Catholic Church, calling herself the fountain of truth, to-day opposes the research of truth, when her foundations, the sacred books, the formulae of her dogmas, her alleged infallibility, become objects of research. To us this signifies that she no longer has faith in herself. The Catholic Church, which proclaims herself the channel of life, to-day chains and stifles all that lives youthfully within her, to-day seeks to prop all that is tottering and aged within her, To us these things mean death, distant, but inevitable death. The Catholic Church, claiming to wish to renew all things through Christ, is hostile to us, who strive to wrest the direction of social progress from the enemies of Christ. This fact, with many others, signifies to us, that she has Christ on her lips but not in her heart. Such is the Catholic Church to-day. Can God desire our obedience to her to continue? We come to you with this question. What shall we do? You who profess to be a Catholic, who preach Catholicism, who have the reputation——‘”

Here Benedetto broke off, saying;

“Only some unimportant words follow.”

And he continued his discourse.

“I answer those who wrote to me, thus: Tell me, why have you appealed to me who profess to be a Catholic? Do you perhaps think me a superior of the superiors in the Church? Will you, perhaps for that reason, rest in peace upon my word, if my word be different from what you call the word of the Church? Listen to this allegory. Thirsty pilgrims draw near to a famous fountain. They find its basin full of stagnant water, disgusting to the taste. The living spring is at the bottom of the basin; they do not find it. Sadly they turn for aid to a quarryman, working in a neighbouring quarry. The quarryman offers them living water. They inquire the name of the spring. ‘It is the same as the water in the basin,’ he replies. ‘Underground it is all one and the same stream. He who digs will find it.’ You are the thirsty pilgrims, I am the humble quarryman, and Catholic truth is the hidden, underground current. The basin is not the Church; the Church is the whole field through which the living waters flow. You have appealed to me because you unconsciously recognise that the Church is not the hierarchy alone, but the universal assemblage of all the faithful, gens sancta; that from the bottom of any Christian heart the living waters of the spring itself, of truth itself, may rush forth. Unconscious recognition, for were it not unconscious you would not say, the Church opposes this, the Church stifles that, the Church is growing old, the Church has Christ on her lips and not in her heart.

“Understand me well. I do not pass judgment upon the hierarchy; I respect the authority of the hierarchy; I simply say that the Church does not consist of the hierarchy alone. Listen to another example. In the thoughts of every man there is a species of hierarchy. Take the upright man. With him certain ideas, certain aims, are dominant thoughts, and control his actions. They are these: to fulfil his religious, moral, and civil duties. To these various duties he gives the traditional interpretations which have been taught him. Yet this hierarchy of firmly grounded opinions does not constitute the whole man. Below it there are in him a multitude of other thoughts, a multitude of other ideas, which are continually being changed and modified by the impressions and experiences of life. And below these thoughts there is another region of the soul, there is the subconsciousness, where occult faculties work at an occult task, where the mysterious contact with God comes to pass. The dominant ideas exercise authority over the will of the upright man, but all that other world of thought is of vast importance as well, because it is continually deriving truth from the experience of what is real externally, and from the experience of what is Divine internally, and therefore seems to rectify the superior ideas, the dominant ideas, in that in which their traditional element is not in perfect harmony with truth. And to them, it is a perennial fountain of fresh life which renews them, a source of legitimate authority, derived rather from the nature of things, from the true value of ideas, than from the decrees of men. The Church is the whole man, not one separate group of exalted and dominant ideas; the Church is the hierarchy, with its traditional views, and the laity, with its continual derivations from reality, its continual reaction upon tradition; the Church is official theology, and she is the inexhaustible treasure of Divine Truth, which reacts upon official theology; the Church does not die; the Church does not grow old; the Church has the living Christ in her heart rather than on her lips; the Church is a laboratory of truth, which is in continual action, and God commands you to remain in the Church, to become the Church fountains of living water.”

Like a gust of wind, a feeling of emotion and of admiration swept over the audience. Benedetto, whose voice had been growing louder and louder, rose to his feet.

“But what manner of faith is yours!” he exclaimed excitedly, “if you talk of deserting the Church because you are displeased with certain antiquated doctrines of her rulers, with certain decrees of the Roman congregations, with certain tendencies in the government of a Pontiff? What manner of sons are you who talk of denying your mother because her dress is not to your taste? Can a dress change the maternal bosom? When resting there, you tearfully confess your infirmities to Christ, and Christ heals you, do you speculate concerning the authenticity of a passage in St. John, the true author of the Fourth Gospel, or the two Isaiahs? When, gathered there, you unite yourselves to Christ in the sacrament, are you disturbed by the decrees of the Index, or of the Holy Office? When, lying there, you pass into the shadows of death, is the peace it sheds about you any less sweet because a Pope is opposed to Christian Democracy?

“My friends, you say ‘We have rested in the shade of this tree, but now its bark is splitting, is being dried up, the tree will die; let us seek another tree.’ The tree will not die. If you had ears you would hear the movement of the new bark which is forming, which will have its span of life, which will crack, will be dried up in its turn only to be replaced by another coat of bark. The tree does not perish, the tree grows.”

Benedetto sat down, exhausted, and was silent. There was a movement among the audience like the shuddering of waves surging towards him. Raising his hands, he stopped them.

“Friends,” he said, in a weary, sweet voice, “listen to me once more. Scribes and Pharisees, elders and princes among priests, have striven in all times against innovations, as they strive to-day. It is not for me to speak to you of them; God will judge them. We pray for all those who know not what they do. But perhaps those of the other Catholic camp, the militant camp, are not entirely without sin. In the other camp they are intoxicated with the idea of modernity. Modernity is good, but the eternal is better. I fear that there they do not esteem the eternal at its just value. It is expected that the Church of Christ will derive much strength from united Catholic action in the fields of administration and politics, action resulting in strife, through which the Father will suffer insult at the hands of men, while not enough reliance is placed on the strength to be derived from the light shed by the good deeds of each individual Christian, through which light the Father is glorified. The supreme object of humanity is to glorify the Father. Now men glorify the Father of such as possess the spirit of charity, of peace, of wisdom, of purity, of fortitude, who give their vital strength for the good of others. One such just man, who professes and practises Catholicism, contributes more largely to the glory of the Father, of Christ, of the Church, than many congresses, many clubs, many Catholic victories in politics.

“A moment ago I heard some one murmur: ‘And what about the social action?’ The social action, my friends, is certainly salutary, as a work of justice, of fraternisation; but like the Socialists, some Catholics put upon it the seal of their own religious and political opinions, and refuse to admit well-intentioned men, if they do not accept that seal; they repulse the good Samaritan, and this is an abomination in the eyes of God. They also set the seal of Catholicism upon works which are instruments of gain, and this again is an abomination in the eyes of God. They preach the just distribution of riches, and that is well; but they too often forget to preach also poverty of the heart, and if they are deterred from doing this by mercenary motives, then this is another abomination in the eyes of God. Purge your actions of these abominations. Call all well-intentioned men to help, especially in works of justice and of love, satisfied yourselves to have initiated these labours. By your words and by your example preach poverty of the heart to rich and poor alike.”

The audience swayed confusedly, drawn in different directions. Benedetto covered his face with his hands, while he collected his thoughts.

“You ask me what you are to do?” he said uncovering his face.

He reflected a moment longer and then continued:

“I see, In the future, Catholic laymen striving zealously for Christ and for truth, and finding a means of instituting unions different from those of the present. They will one day take arms as knights of the Holy Spirit, banding together for the united defence of God and of Christian morality in the scientific, artistic, civil, and social fields; for the united defence of legitimate liberty in the religious field. They shall be under certain special obligations, not however of community of living, or of celibacy, integrating the office of the Catholic clergy, to which they will not belong as an Order but only as persons, in the individual practice of Catholicism. Pray that God’s will may be made manifest concerning this work in the souls of those who contemplate it. Pray that these souls may willingly strip themselves of all pride in having conceived this work, and of all hope of witnessing its completion, should God manifest disapproval of it. If God manifest His approval of it, then pray that men may be taught to organise its every detail to His greater glory, and to the greater glory of the Church. Amen!”

He had finished, but no one moved. All eyes were fixed upon him, anxious and eager for other words to follow these last, unexpected ones, which had sounded so mysterious and grand. Many would have liked to break the silence, but no one ventured to do so. When Benedetto rose, and all gathered round him in a respectful circle, the old gentleman with the red face and the white hair rose also, and said, his voice shaking with emotion.

“You will suffer insult and blows; you will be crowned with thorns and given gall to drink; you will be derided by the Pharisees and the heathen; you will not see the future you long for, but the future is yours; the disciples of your disciples will see it!”

He embraced Benedetto and kissed him on the brow. Two or three of those nearest him clapped their hands timidly, and then a burst of applause swept through the room. Benedetto, greatly agitated, signed to a fair-haired young man, who had come to the house with him, and who now hastened to his side, his face radiant with emotion and joy. Some one whispered:

“A disciple!”

Some one else added, softly:

“Yes, and the favourite!”

The master of the house almost prostrated himself before Benedetto, pouring out words of deference and gratitude. Then one of the priests ventured to come forward, and said in a tremulous voice:

“Master, have you no word of counsel for us?”

“Do not call me master!” Benedetto replied, still much agitated. “Pray that light may be shed upon these young men, upon our shepherds, and also upon me!”

When he had left the room, a crackle of voices arose, some resonant, others short and hoarse, for astonishment still held these agitated minds in check. Presently, here and there, the intense excitement burst forth, and spread in every direction. Exclamations of admiration broke from all lips, some praising this or that expression the speaker had used, this or that thought he had uttered, while others remarked upon his glance, his accent, or marvelled at the spirit of holiness which shone in his face, and which seemed to emanate from his very hands. Soon, however, the master of the house dismissed the guests, and though his apologies were profuse, and his words very gracious, still his haste was such as to be almost discourteous. As soon as he was alone he unlocked the door, and, pushing it open, stood bowing on the threshold.

“Ladies!” said he, and threw the door wide open.

A swarm of ladies fluttered into the empty hall. A middle-aged spinster literally flung herself towards the young man, and, clasping her hands, exclaimed:

“Oh! how grateful we are to you! Oh! what a saint! I don’t know what prevented us from rushing in and embracing him!”

“Cara! My good creature!” said another with the quiet irony of the Venetian, her fine large eyes sparkling. “It was probably because the door was locked, fortunately for him!”

The ladies were twelve in number. The master of the house, Professor Guarnacci, son of the general-agent of one of them—the Marchesa Fermi, a Roman—had spoken to her about the meeting which was to take place at his house, and had mentioned the discourse to be pronounced by that strange personage about whom all Rome was already talking, knowing him as an enthusiastic religious agitator and miracle worker, most popular in the Testaccio district. The Marchesa was determined to hear him without being seen. She had arranged everything with Guarnacci, and had admitted three or four friends into the conspiracy, each in her turn obtaining permission to introduce others. They appeared a strangely assorted company. Many were in evening toilettes, two were dressed precisely like Friends, while only one lady wore black.

The two Friends, who were foreigners, seemed quite beside themselves with enthusiasm, and were highly incensed against the Marchesa, a sceptical, very sarcastic old woman, who remarked calmly:

“Yes, yes, he spoke very well; but I should have liked to see his face while he was speaking.”

Declaring she could judge men far better by their faces than by their words, the old Marchesa reproached Guarnacci for not having made a hole in the door, or at least left the key in the lock.

“You are too holy,” she said. “You do not understand women!”

Guarnacci laughed, apologising with all the consideration due to his father’s employer, and assured her that Benedetto was as beautiful as an angel. A rather insipid young woman who had come, “Goodness only knows why!” the two Friends thought angrily, announced, in quiet tones, that she had seen him twice, and that he was ugly.

“That is, of course, according to your idea of beauty, signora!” one of the Friends remarked sourly, while the other added in a low tone, intended to enhance its sting, a poisonous “Naturellement!”

The insipid young woman, her colour deepening with embarrassment and vexation, replied that he was pale and thin, and the two Friends exchanged glances and smiles of tacit contempt. But where had she seen him? Two other insipid young women were curious to know this.

“Why, on both occasions in my sister-in-law’s garden,” she answered.

“He is always in the garden!” the Marchesa exclaimed. “Does the angel grow in a flower-bed or in a pot?”

The insipid young woman laughed, and the Friends shot furious glances at the Marchesa.

Tea, which had been included in Guarnacci’s invitation, was then brought in.

“A delightful conversation, is it not?” Signora Albacina, wife of the Honourable Albacina, Undersecretary of the Home Office, said softly to the lady in black, who had not once spoken. She now smiled sadly without answering.

Tea was served by the Professor and his sister, and put an end to conversation for a few moments. It soon burst forth again, however, the topic being Benedetto’s discourse. There ensued such a confusion of senseless remarks, of worthless opinions, of would-be wise sayings devoid of wisdom that the lady in black proposed to Signora Albacina, in whose company she had come, that they should take their departure. But at that point the Marchesa Fermi, having discovered a small bell on the mantel-shelf, began ringing it, to obtain silence. “I should like to hear about this garden,” she said.

The Friends and the middle-aged spinster, engaged in a warm discussion of Benedetto’s Catholic orthodoxy, would not have left off for ten bells, had not the spinster’s curiosity been roused by the word “garden.” It now burst forth unchecked! Garden indeed! The Professor must tell them all he knew about this Father Hecker, who was an Italian and a layman. Partly to display her knowledge, partly from thoughtlessness, she had already bestowed this title upon Benedetto. The insipid young woman consulted her watch. Her carriage must be at the door. Little Signorina Guarnacci said there were already four or five carriages at the door. The insipid young woman was anxious to reach the Valle in time for the third act of the comedy, and two other ladies, who had engagements, left at the same time. The Marchesa Fermi remained.

“Make haste, Professor,” she said, “for my daughter is expecting me this evening, with those other ladies whose shoulders are on view!”

“Do make haste, then!” said the middle-aged spinster, contemptuously. “Afterwards you can speak for the benefit of the poor creatures who do not show their shoulders!”

A fair-haired, extremely handsome foreigner, in a very low gown, cast a withering glance at the poor, lean, carefully covered little shoulders of the contemptuous spinster, who, greatly vexed, grew as red as a lobster.

“Well, then,” the Professor began, “as the Marchesa, and probably the other ladies who are in such a hurry, already know as much as I do myself about the Saint of Jenne, before he left Jenne, I will omit that part of the story. A month ago, then, in October, I did not even remember having read in the papers, in June or July, about this Benedetto, who was preaching and performing miracles at Jenne. Well, one day, coming out of San Marcello, I met a certain Porretti, who used to write for the Osservatore, but does so no longer. This Porretti walked on with me, and we spoke of the condemnation of Giovanni Selva’s works which is expected from day to day, and which—by the way—has not yet been pronounced. Porretti told me there was a friend of Selva’s in Rome at present who would be even more talked of than Selva himself. ‘Who is he?’ I inquired. ‘The Saint of Jenne,’ he replied, and proceeded to tell me the following story. Two priests, well known in Rome as terrible Pharisees, caused this man to be driven away from Jenne. He retired to Subiaco, stayed with the Selvas, who were spending the summer there, and fell seriously ill. Upon his recovery he came to Rome—about the middle of July. Professor Mayda, another friend of Selva’s, engaged him as under-gardener at the villa which he built two years ago on the Aventine, below Sant’ Anselmo. The new under-gardener, who wished to be called simply Benedetto, as at Jenne, soon became popular in the whole Testaccio quarter. He distributes his bread among the poor, comforts the sick, and, it seems, has really healed one or two by the laying on of hands and by prayer. He has, in fact, become so popular that Professor Mayda’s daughter-in-law, notwithstanding her faith and piety, would gladly dismiss him, on account of the annoyance his many visitors cause. But her father-in-law treats him with the greatest consideration. If he allows him to rake the paths and water the flowers, it is only because he respects his saintly ideals, and he limits the hours of work, making them as short as possible. He wishes to leave him perfectly free to fulfil his religious mission. Mayda himself often goes into the garden to talk of religion with his under-gardener. To please him Benedetto has abandoned the diet he observed at Jenne, where he ate nothing but bread and herbs, and drank only water; he now eats meat and drinks wine. To please Benedetto, the Professor distributes these things in large quantities among the sick of the district. Many people laugh at Benedetto and insult him, but the populace venerates him as did the people of Jenne in the beginning. His deeds of charity to the soul are even greater than his deeds of charity to the body. He has freed certain families from moral disorders, and for this his life was threatened by a woman of evil repute; he has persuaded some to go to church who, since their childhood, have never set foot inside a church. The Benedictines of Sant’ Anselmo are well aware of these things. Then, two or three times a week, in the evening, he speaks in the Catacombs.”

The middle-aged spinister gasped!

“In the Catacombs?”

She leaned, shuddering, towards the speaker, while one of the Friends murmured: “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” and another voice, laden with reverent surprise, said:

“How terrifying!”

“Well,” the young man continued, smiling, “Porretti said ‘in the Catacombs,’ but he meant in a secret place, known to few. At present I myself know its whereabouts.”

“Ah!” ejaculated the spinister. “You know? Where is it?”

Guarnacci did not answer, and, perceiving her indiscretion, she added hastily.

“I beg your pardon! I beg your pardon!”

“We shall find out, we shall find out!” said the Marchesa. “But tell me, my dear boy, is not this saint of yours, who preaches in secret, a kind of heresiarch? What do the priests say to him?”

“To-night you might have seen three or four here who went away perfectly satisfied.”

“They must be very unpriestly priests, badly baked priests, counterfeit priests. But what do the others say? Mark my words, sooner or later, the others will apply the torcibudella, the ‘entrail twister,’ to him.”

With this pleasing prophecy the Marchesa departed, followed by all the bare shoulders.

The middle-aged spinister and the Friends, glad to be rid of that contemptible, mundane bevy, assailed the Professor with questions. Must he really not tell where the modern Catacombs were? How many people met there? Women also? What were the subjects of his discourses? What did the monks of Sant’ Anselmo say? And was anything known concerning this man’s previous career? The Professor parried the questions as best he might, and simply repeated to them the words of one of the fathers at Sant’ Anselmo: “If there were a Benedetto for every parish in Rome, Rome would indeed become the Holy City.” But when—all the others having left—he found himself alone with Signora Albacina and the silent lady, who were waiting for their carriage, he intimated to the former—to whom he was bound by ties of friendship—that he would willingly tell more, but that he was embarrassed by the presence of a stranger, and he begged to be presented to her. Signora Albacina had forgotten to perform this ceremony. “Professor Guarnacci,” said she, “Signora Dessalle, a dear friend of mine.”

The “Catacombs” meant the very hall they were in at the present moment. At first the meetings had been held at the Selvas’ apartment, in Via Arenula. There were several reasons why that place had not seemed quite suitable. Guarnacci, becoming a disciple, had offered his own house. The meetings were held there twice a week. Among those who attended them were the Selvas, Signora Selva’s sister, a few priests, the Venetian lady who had just left, some young men—among these he might mention a certain Alberti, a favourite with the Master, who this evening had come and gone with him, and a Jew, whose name was Viterbo, and who was soon to become a Catholic; of him the Master expected great things. Besides these a journeyman printer, several artists, and even two members of Parliament came regularly. The object of these meetings was to acquaint such as are drawn to Christ, but who shrink from Catholicism, with what Catholicism really is, the vital and indestructible essence of the Catholic religion, and to show the purely human character of those different forms, which are what render it repugnant to many, but which are changeable, are changing, and will continue to change, through the elaboration of the inner, divine element, combined with the external influences, the influences of science and of the public conscience. Benedetto was very particular about granting admission to the meetings, for no one was more skilled than he in the delicate task of dealing with souls, respecting their purity, bringing himself down to the small ones, soaring with the high ones, and using with timid souls that careful language which instructs without troubling.

“The Marchesa,” continued the Professor, “says he must be an heresiarch, and the priests who follow him heretics. No, With Benedetto there is no danger of heresies or schisms. At the very last meeting he demonstrated that schisms and heresies, besides being blameworthy in themselves, are fatal to the Church, not only because they deprive her of souls, but because they deprive her of elements of progress as well; for if the innovators remained subject to the Church, their errors would perish, and that element of truth, that element of goodness, which—in a certain measure—is nearly always united to error would become vital in the body of the Church.”

Signora Albacina observed that all this was very beautiful, and if that was how matters really stood, certainly the Marchesa’s prophecy would not be fulfilled.

“The prophecy about the tordbudella, the ‘entrail twister?’ Ah no!” said the Professor, laughing. “Such things are not done now, and I do not believe they ever were done. It is all calumny! Only the Marchesa and certain others like her in Rome believe these things. A Roman priest, a priest, you understand, dared to warn Benedetto, to advise him to be cautious. But Benedetto let him see he must not speak to him of caution again. Therefore it will not be the torcibudella—no—but persecution it will be! Yes, indeed!—Those two Roman priests who were at Jenne have not been asleep. I did not wish to say so before, because the Marchesa is not the person to tell such things to, but there is much trouble brewing. Benedetto’s every step has been watched; Professor Mayda’s daughter-in-law has been made use of, through the confessional, to obtain information concerning his language, and they have found out about the meetings. The presence of Selva is enough to give them the character these people abhor, and as they are powerless against a layman, it seems they are trying to obtain the help of the civil law against Benedetto; they are appealing to the police and to the judges. You are surprised? But it is so. As yet nothing has been decided, nothing has been done, but they are plotting. We were informed of this by a foreign ecclesiastic, who chattered foolishly on a former occasion; but this time he has chattered to good purpose. Materials for a penal action are being prepared and invented.”

The silent lady shuddered, and opened her lips at last.

“How can that be possible?” she said.

“My dear lady,” said the Professor, “you little know of what some of these intransigenti, these non-concessionists in priestly robes, are capable. The secular non-concessionists are lambs compared to them. They are going to make use of an unfortunate accident which took place at Jenne. Now, however, we are greatly encouraged by a fresh incident, of which it would not be wise to speak to many, without discriminating, but which is most important.”

The Professor paused a moment, enjoying the lively curiosity he had awakened, and which, though they did not speak, shone in the eager eyes of the two ladies.

“The other day,” he continued, “Cardinal——‘s secretary, a young German priest, went to Sant’ Anselmo to confer with the monks. In consequence of this visit Benedetto was summoned to Sant’ Anselmo, where the Benedictines hold him in great affection and esteem. He was asked if he did not intend to pay homage to His Holiness, and beg for an audience. He replied that he had come to Rome with this desire in his heart; that he had waited for a sign from Divine Providence, and that now the sign had come. Then he was informed that His Holiness would certainly receive him most willingly, and he asked for an audience. This was disclosed to Giovanni Selva by a German Benedictine.”

“And when is he to go?” Signora Albacina asked.

“The day after to-morrow in the evening.”

The Professor added that the Vatican was maintaining the strictest secrecy in regard to this matter, that Benedetto had been forbidden to mention it to any one, and that nothing would have transpired had it not been for the German monk’s indiscretion. Benedetto’s friends hoped much good would come of this visit. Signora Albacina asked what Benedetto intended to say to the Pontiff. The Professor smiled. Benedetto had not taken any one into his confidence, and no one had ventured to question him. The Professor fancied he would speak in favour of Selva, would beg that his books might not be placed on the Index.

“That would be very little,” said Signora Albacina in a low tone.

Jeanne uttered a low murmur of assent.

“Very little indeed!” she exclaimed, almost as if the Professor were to blame. He appeared much surprised at this sudden outburst, after such a long silence. He apologised, saying he had not intended to assert that Benedetto would not speak to the Pope of other matters. He had simply meant to say that he believed he would certainly mention that subject. Signora Albacina could not understand this desire of the Pope’s to see Benedetto. How did his friends explain it? What did Selva think about it? Ah! no one could explain it, neither Selva nor any one else.

“I can explain it!” said Jeanne eagerly, pleased to be able to understand what puzzled all others. “Was not the Pope once Bishop of Brescia?”

Guarnacci’s smile was half admiring, half ironical, as he answered. Ah! the Signora was well informed concerning Benedetto’s past. The Signora knew certain things to be facts, things which were whispered in Rome, but which nevertheless, were doubted by many. Of one fact, however, she was ignorant. The Pope had never been Bishop of Brescia. He had occupied two episcopal chairs in the south. Jeanne did not answer; she was vexed with herself, and mortified at having so nearly betrayed her secret. Signora Albacina wished to know what opinion Benedetto had of the Pope.

“Oh, in the Pope he sees and venerates the office alone,” said the Professor. “At least, I believe so. I have never heard him speak of the man, but I have heard him speak of the office. He made it the subject of a magnificent discourse one evening, comparing Catholicism and Protestantism, and exposing his ideal of the government of the Church: a principality and just liberty. As to the new Pope, little is known of him as yet. He is said to be saintly, intelligent, sickly, and weak.”

While accompanying the ladies down the dark stairs to their carriage, the Professor remarked:

“What is greatly feared is that Benedetto will not live. Mayda at least fears this.”

Signora Albacina, who was descending the stairs leaning on the Professor’s arm, exclaimed, without pausing:

“Oh! poor fellow! What is the matter with him?” “Ma! Who can say?” the Professor replied. “Some incurable disease, it would seem, the consequence of typhoid fever, which he had at Subiaco, but above all, of the life of hardship he led, a life of penance and fasting.”

And they continued their long descent in silence.

It was only on reaching the foot of the stairs that they perceived their companion had remained behind. The Professor hastily retraced his steps, and found Jeanne standing on the second landing, clinging to the banisters. At first she neither spoke nor moved; but presently she murmured:

“I cannot see!”

Guarnacci, not knowing, did not notice that moment of silence, or the low and uncertain tone of her voice. He offered her his arm, and led her down, apologising for the darkness, and explaining that the proprietor’s avarice was to blame for it. Jeanne entered Signora Albacina’s carriage, which was to take her to the Grand Hôtel. On the way Signora Albacina spoke with regret of what Guarnacci had just told her. Jeanne did not open her lips. Her silence troubled her friend.

“Were you not pleased with the discourse?” she said. She was in complete ignorance of Jeanne’s religious opinions.

“Yes,” her companion answered. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing! I thought you seemed dissatisfied. Then you are not sorry you came?”

Signora Albacina was greatly astonished when Jeanne seized her hand and replied: “I am so grateful to you!”

The voice was low and quiet, the pressure of the hand almost violent.

“Indeed! indeed!” thought Signora Albacina. “This is one of the future ‘Ladies of the Holy Spirit’!”

“For my part,” she said aloud, “I am sure I shall keep to my old religion, the religion of the non-concessionists. They may be Pharisees or anything else you like, but I fear that if this old religion is subjected to so much retouching and restoring, it will tumble down, and nothing will be left standing. Besides, if we followed these Benedettos, too many things would have to be changed. No, no! However, the man interests me extremely. Now we must try to see him. We must see him! Especially as he seems doomed to speedy death. Don’t you think so? How can we manage it? Let us think!”

“I have no wish to see him,” Jeanne said hastily.

“Really?” her friend exclaimed. “But how is that? Explain this riddle!”

“It is quite simple. I have no desire to see him.”

“Curious!” thought Signora Albacina. The carriage drew up before the entrance to the Grand Hôtel.

In the hall Jeanne met Noemi and her brother-in-law, who were coming out. “At last!” said Noemi. “Run, make haste, Your brother is furious with this Jeanne, who stays away so long! We have just left him, because the doctor has arrived.”

The Dessalles had been in Rome a fortnight. Cold, damp weather at the beginning of October, a projected essay on Bernini, which had succeeded the projected novel, had persuaded Carlino to satisfy Signora Albacina sooner than he had intended, by leaving Villa Diedo before winter set in for the milder climate of Rome. This to the great joy of his sister. Two or three days after his arrival he had a slight attack of bronchitis. He declared he was in consumption, shut himself up in his room, with the intention of remaining there all winter, wished to see the doctor twice a day, and tyrannised over Jeanne with merciless egotism, even numbering her moments of freedom. She made herself his slave; she seemed to delight in this unreasonable extra burden, of sacrifice which overflowed the measure of her sisterly affection. In her heart she offered it, with sweet eagerness, to Benedetto. She often saw the Selvas and Noemi; not at their home, but at the Grand Hôtel. The Selvas themselves were captivated by the fascination of this woman, so superior, so beautiful, so gentle and sad. All she had heard from Guarnacci concerning Benedetto she had already heard from Noemi. But she had not been aware of Professor Mayda’s sad opinion. Partly from kindness, but partly also that her own emotion might not be revealed, Noemi had hidden it from her,

Carlino received her unkindly. The doctor, who had found his pulse rather frequent, concluded at once that it was an angry pulse. He jested a few minutes about the serious nature of the illness, and then took his departure. Carlino inquired roughly where Jeanne had been, so long, and she did not hesitate to tell him. She did not, however, mention Benedetto’s real name.

“Were you not ashamed,” said he, “to be eavesdropping like that?”

Without giving her time to answer, he began protesting against the new tendencies he had discovered in her.

“Tomorrow you will be going to confession, and the day after you will be reciting the rosary!”

Underneath his usually tolerant and courteous language, and the liking he displayed for not a few priests, lurked a real anti-religious mania. The idea that his sister might, some day, draw near to the priests, to faith, to acts of piety, nearly drove him out of his senses.

Jeanne did not answer, but meekly asked if she should read to him, as she was in the habit of doing in the evening. Carlino declared shortly that he did not wish to be read to, and, pretending to feel draughts, kept her for at least a quarter of an hour, inspecting the doors, the windows, the walls, and the floor itself, with a lighted candle in her hand. Then he sent her to bed.

But when Jeanne reached her own room she thought neither of sleeping nor of undressing. She put out the light, and sat down on the bed.

Carriages rumbled in the street, steps sounded, and women’s dresses rustled in the corridor; sitting motionless there in the dark she did not hear. She had put out the light that she might think, that she might see only her own thoughts, only that idea which had taken possession of her while coming down-stairs at Casa Guarnacci leaning on the Professor’s arm, after she had heard those terrible words: “We fear he will not live!” and had almost lost consciousness. In the carriage with Signora Albacina, in the room with her brother, even while obliged to talk with one or the other, to pay attention to so many different things, this idea, this proposal, which the burning heart was making to the will, had been continually flashing within her. Now it flashed no longer. Jeanne contemplated it lying quiet within her. In that figure sitting motionless on the bed, in the darkness, two souls were confronting each other in silence. A humble Jeanne, passionate, sure of being able to sacrifice all to love, was measuring her strength against a Jeanne unconsciously haughty, and sure of possessing a hard and cold truth. The rumbling of the carriages was dying out in the street; the steps and the rustlings were less frequent in the corridor. Suddenly the two Jeannes seemed to mingle once more and become one, who thought:

“When they announce his death to me, I shall be able to say to myself: At least, you did that!”

She rose, turned on the light, seated herself at the writing-table, chose a sheet of paper, and wrote:

“To Piero Maironi, the night of October 29,——

“I believe.

“JEANNE DESSALLE.”

When she had written, she gazed a long, long time at the solemn words.

The longer she gazed, the farther the two Jeannes seemed to draw apart. The unconsciously proud Jeanne overpowered and crushed the other almost without a struggle. Filled with a mortal bitterness, she tore the sheet, stained with the word it was impossible to maintain, impossible even to write honestly. The light once more extinguished, she accused the Almighty—if, indeed, He existed—of cruelty, and wept in this darkness of her own making, wept unrestrainedly.

The clock of St. Peter’s struck eight. Benedetto left a little group of people at the corner of Via di Porta Angelica, and turned, alone, into Bernini’s colonnade, his steps directed towards the bronze portal. He paused to listen to the roar of the fountains, to gaze at the clustered lights of the four candelabra round the obelisk, and—tremulous, opaque against the moon’s face—the mighty jet of the fountain on the left. In five minutes, or, perhaps, in fifteen minutes, he would find himself in the presence of the Pope. His mind was concentrated on this culminating point, and vibrated there as did the sparkling, ever-rising water at the apex of the mighty jet. The square was empty. No one would see him enter the Vatican save that spectral diadem of saints standing rigid over there on the summit of the opposite colonnade. The saints and the fountains were saying to him with one voice, that he believed he was passing through a solemn hour, but that this atom of time, he himself and the Pontiff, would soon pass away, would be lost for ever in the kingdom of forgetfulness, while the fountains continued their monotonous lament, and the saints their silent contemplation. But he, on the contrary, felt that the word of truth is the word of eternal life, and, concentrating his thoughts once more within himself, he closed his eyes and prayed with intense fervour, as for two days he had prayed that the Spirit might awaken this word in his breast, might bring it to his lips when he should stand before the Pope.

He had expected some one between eight o’clock and a quarter past. The quarter had already struck, and no one had appeared. He turned and gazed at the bronze portal. Only one wing of it was open, and he could see lights beyond. From time to time small groups of dwarfish figures passed into it, as tiny, heedless moths might fly into the yawning jaws of a lion. At last a priest approached the portal from within and beckoned. Benedetto drew near. The priest said:

“You have come about Sant’ Anselmo?”

That was the question which had been agreed upon. When Benedetto had assented, the priest signed to him to enter.

“Please come this way,” said he.

Benedetto followed him. They passed between the pontifical guards, who gave the priest the military salute. Turning to the right they mounted the Scala Pia. At the entrance to the courtyard of San Damaso there were other guards, other salutes, and an order given by the priest in a low tone; Benedetto did not hear it. They crossed the courtyard, leaving the entrance to the library on their left and on their right the door by which the Pope’s apartments are reached. High above them the glass of the Logge shone in the moonlight. Benedetto, recalling an audience the late Pontiff had granted him, was astonished at being conducted by this strange way. Having crossed the courtyard in a straight line, the priest entered the narrow passage leading to the small stairway called “dei Mosaici,” and stopped before the door opening on the right, where the stairway called “del Triangolo” descends. “Are you acquainted with the Vatican?” he inquired.

“I am acquainted with the Museums and the Logge,” Benedetto replied. “The predecessor of the present Pontiff once received me in his private apartment; but I am not acquainted with any other parts.”

“You have never been here?”

“Never.”

The priest preceded him up the stair, which was dimly illuminated by small electric lights. Suddenly, where the first flight reaches a landing, the lights went out. Benedetto, pausing with one foot on the landing, heard his guide run rapidly up some stairs on the right. Then all was silence. He supposed the light had gone out by accident, and that the priest had gone to turn it on again. He waited. No light, no footfall, no voice. He stepped on to the landing; stretching out his hands in the darkness, he touched a wall on the left; he went forward towards the right, feeling his way. By touching them with his foot he became aware of two flights of stairs which branched from the landing. He waited again, never doubting the priest would return.

Five minutes, ten minutes passed and the priest did not come. What could have happened. Had they wished to deceive him, to make sport of him? But why? Benedetto would not allow himself to dwell upon a suspicion about which it was useless to speculate. He reflected rather upon what it was best to do. It did not seem reasonable to wait any longer. Had he better turn back? Had he better go up still higher? In that case, which stair should he choose? He looked into himself, questioning the Ever-Present One.

No, he would not turn back. The idea was displeasing to him. He started up one of the flights, without choosing—the one leading to the servants’ rooms. It was short; presently Benedetto found himself on another landing. Now, he had heard the priest run up many stairs rapidly and without stopping, and the noise of his steps had been lost far, far above. He came down again, and tried the other flight. It was longer. The priest must have mounted this one. He decided to follow the priest.

On reaching the top he passed through a low door, and found himself upon the Loggia, illumined by the moon. He looked about him. Near at hand, on the right, a gateway divided this Loggia from another one, the two meeting there and forming a right angle. Far away, on the left, the Loggia terminated at a closed door. The full moon shone through the great, glazed spaces, upon the pavement; showed the sides of the courtyard of San Damaso: and in the background, between the two enormous black wings of the Palace, humble roofs, the trees of Villa Cesi and the lights of Sant’ Onofrio were visible. Both the door on the left, and the gateway on the right appeared to be closed. Again and again Benedetto looked from right to left. Little by little he began to recall former impressions. Yes, he had been in that Loggia before, he had seen that gateway when on his way to visit the Gallery of Inscriptions—the Via Appia of the Vatican—with an acquaintance of his, a reader in the “Vaticana.” Yes, now he remembered quite well. The door on the left at the end of the Loggia, must lead to the apartments of the Cardinal Secretary of State. The Loggia beyond the gateway was that of Giovanni da Udine; the great barred windows opening on to it were the windows of the Borgia apartment, and the entrance to the Gallery of Inscriptions must be precisely in the angle. On that former occasion a Swiss guard had stood by the gate. Now there was no one there. The place was quite deserted; on the right and on the left silence reigned.

To try the door of the Cardinal Secretary of State’s apartment was not to be thought of. Benedetto pushed the gate. It was open. He paused, finding himself before the entrance to the Gallery of Inscriptions. Again he listened. Profound silence. An inward voice seemed to say to him: “Mount the steps. Enter!” Fearlessly he mounted the five steps.

The Via Appia of the Vatican, as broad, perhaps, as the ancient way, contained not a single lamp. At regular intervals pale streaks of light lay across the pavement, falling through the windows, which, from among the tombstones, the cippi, and the pagan sarcophagi, look down upon Rome. No light fell through the windows of the Christian wall, which overlook the courtyard of the Belvedere. The distant end of the Gallery, towards the Chiaramonti Museum, was shrouded in complete darkness. Then, realising that he was in the very heart of the immense Vatican, Benedetto was seized with a terror mingled with awe. He approached a great window, from whence he could see Castel Sant’ Angelo and the innumerable tiny lights dotted over the lower city, while higher up, and more brilliant, those of the Quirinal shone against the horizon. Not the sight of illumined Rome, but the sight of a low and narrow bench, running along below the cippi and the sarcophagi, calmed his spirit. Then, in the dim light, he distinguished a canopy, which was already half demolished. What could it mean? Along the opposite wall ran a second bench, exactly like the first. Proceeding, he stumbled against something which proved to be a large armchair. Now terror had given place to a fixed purpose. The imperious, inward voice, which had already commanded him to enter, said to him, “Go forward!” The voice was so clear, so loud, that a sudden flash illumined his memory.

He smote his forehead. In the Vision he had seen himself in conversation with the Pope. This he had never been able to forget. But he had forgotten—and now the memory of it had flashed back to him—that a spirit had led him through the Vatican to the Pope. He moved along the left-hand wall, near which he had stumbled against the great chair. He was convinced that at the end of the Gallery he should find an exit, and light at last. He did remember that, at the end, was the gateway leading to the Chiaramonti Museum. He went on, often pressing his hand against the wall, against the tombstones. Suddenly he became aware that what he was touching was neither marble nor stone. Gently, he beat upon the wall with his fist. It was wood—a door! Involuntarily he stopped and waited. He heard a step behind the door; a key turned in the lock; a blade of light slanted across the Gallery and broadened; a black figure appeared; the priest who had abandoned Benedetto on the stairs! He came out, moving rapidly, closed the door behind him, and said to Benedetto, as if nothing strange had taken place:

“You are about to find yourself in the presence of His Holiness.”

He signed to Benedetto to enter, and again closed the door, he himself remaining outside.

On entering, Benedetto could distinguish only a small table, a little lamp with a green shade, and a white figure seated behind the table, and, facing him. He sank upon his knees.

The white figure stretched out its arm, and said: “Rise. How did you come?”

The singularly sweet face, framed in grey hair, wore an expression of astonishment. The voice, with its southern ring, betrayed emotion:

Benedetto rose, and answered:

“From the bronze portal as far as a spot which I cannot locate, I was accompanied by the priest who was here with Your Holiness; from thence I came alone.”

“Were you familiar with the Vatican? Did they tell you, you would find me here?”

When Benedetto had answered that, years ago, he had paid a single visit to the museums of the Vatican, the Logge, and the Gallery of Inscriptions; that on that occasion he had not reached the Logge from the courtyard of San Damaso; that he had had no idea where he should find the Sovereign Pontiff, the Pope was silent for a moment; absorbed in thought. Presently he said, tenderly, affectionately, pointing to a chair opposite him:

“Be seated, my son.”

Had Benedetto not been absorbed in contemplation of the Pope’s ascetic and gentle face, he would have looked about him not without surprise, while his august interlocutor was engaged in gathering together some papers which were scattered upon the little table. This was indeed a strange reception-room, a dusty chaos of old pictures, old books, old furniture. One would have pronounced it the ante-room of some library, of some museum, which was being rearranged. But he was lost in contemplation of the Pope’s face, that thin, waxen face, which wore an ineffable expression of purity and of kindliness. He drew nearer, bent his knee, and kissed the hand which the Holy Father extended to him, saying, with sweet dignity:

“Non mihi, sed Petro.”

Then Benedetto sat down. The Pope passed him a sheet of paper, and pushed the little lamp nearer to him.

“Look,” said he. “Do you know that writing?”

Benedetto looked and shuddered, and could not check an exclamation of reverent sorrow.

“Yes,” he replied. “It is the writing of a holy priest, whom I dearly loved, who is dead, and whose name was Don Giuseppe Flores.”

His Holiness continued:

“Now read. Read aloud.”

Benedetto read:

“Monsignore,—

“I entrust to my Bishop the sealed packet enclosed, with this note, in an envelope bearing your address. It was left with me, to be opened after his death, by Signor Piero Maironi, who was well known to you before his disappearance from the world. I know not if he be still alive or if he no longer be among the living, and I have no means of ascertaining. I believe the packet contains an account of a vision of a supernatural nature which visited Maironi when he returned to God out of the fire of a sinful passion. I hoped at that time that the Almighty had chosen him as the instrument of some special work of His own. I hoped that the holiness of the work would be confirmed, after Maironi’s death, by the perusal of this document, which might come to be looked upon in the light of a prophecy. I hoped this, although I was at great pains to prudently hide my secret hopes from Maironi.

“Two years have elapsed since the day of his disappearance, and nothing has since been heard of him. Monsignore, when you read these words, I also shall have disappeared. I beg you to take my place in this pious stewardship. You will act as your conscience may dictate, as you may deem best.

“And pray for the soul of

Your poor

DON GIUSEPPE FLORES.”

Benedetto laid the paper down, and gazed into the Pontiff’s face, waiting.

“Are you Piero Maironi?” he said.

“Yes, your Holiness.”

The Pontiff smiled pleasantly.

“First of all, I am glad you are alive,” he said. “That Bishop believed you were dead; he opened the packet, and deemed it his duty to entrust it to the Vicar of Christ. This happened about six months ago, while my saintly predecessor was still living. He mentioned it to several cardinals and to me also. Then it was discovered that you were still alive, and we knew where you lived and how. Now I must ask you a few questions, and I exhort you to answer with perfect truth.”

The Pontiff looked with serious eyes into Benedetto’s eyes; Benedetto bowed his head slightly. “You have written here,” the Pontiff began, “that when you were in that little church in the Veneto, you had a vision of yourself in the Vatican, conversing with the Pope. What can you recall concerning that part of your vision?”

“My vision,” Benedetto answered, “grew more and more indistinct in my memory during the time I spent at Santa Scolastica—about three years—partly because my spiritual director there, as well as poor Don Giuseppe Flores, always counselled me not to dwell upon it. Certain parts remained clear to me, others became indistinct. The fact that I had seen myself in the Vatican, face to face with the Sovereign Pontiff, remained fixed in my mind; but only the bare fact. A few moments ago, however, there in the dark gallery from whence I entered this room, I suddenly remembered that in the vision I was guided to the Pontiff by a spirit. I recalled this when I found myself alone in the night, in the darkness, in a place unknown to me, or practically unknown, for I had been there only once, many years before, when, having no idea what direction to take, I was about to retrace my steps, and an inward voice, very clear, very loud, commanded me to press forward.”

“And when you knocked at the door,” the Pope inquired, “did you know you would find me here? Did you know you were knocking at the door of the library?”

“No, Your Holiness. I did not even intend to knock. I was in the dark; I could see nothing, I was simply touching, the wall with my hand.”

The Pope was silent for some time, lost in thought; then he remarked that the manuscript contained the words: “At first a man dressed in black guided me.” Benedetto did not remember this.

“You know,” the Pope continued, “that prophecy alone is not sufficient proof of saintliness. You know there are such things (such cases have been met with) as prophetic visions which were the work of-well, perhaps not of malign spirits, we know too little of these matters to assert that—but of occult powers, of powers innate in human nature, or of powers superior to human nature, but which most certainly have nothing to do with holiness. Can you describe to me the state of your soul when you had the vision?”

“I was feeling most bitter sorrow at having drawn away from God, at having been deaf to His calls, an infinite gratitude for His patient kindness, and an infinite desire of Christ. In my mind I had just seen, really seen, shining clear and white against a dark background, those words of the Gospel, which long ago, in the time of goodness had been so dear to me: ‘Magister adest et vocat te.‘ Don Giuseppe Flores was officiating, and Mass was nearly over, when, as I prayed, my face buried in my hands, the vision came to me. It was instantaneous; like a flash!”

Benedetto’s chest heaved, so violent was this revulsion of memory.

“It may have been a delusion,” he said; “but it was not the work of malign spirits.”

“The evil spirits,” the Pontiff said, “do sometimes masquerade as angels of light. Perhaps, at that time, they were striving against the spirit of goodness which was within you. Did you take pride in this vision, later on?”

Benedetto bowed his head, and reflected for some time.

“Perhaps—on one occasion,” said he, “for one moment, at Santa Scolastica, when my master, in the Abbot’s name, offered me the habit of a lay-brother, that habit which was afterwards taken from me at Jenne. Then I thought for a moment that this unexpected offer confirmed the last part of my vision, and I felt a wave of satisfaction, deeming myself the object of divine favour. I immediately entreated God to pardon me, as I now entreat Your Holiness to pardon me.”

The Pontiff did not speak, but he raised his hand with wide-spread fingers, and lowered it again, in an act of absolution.

Then he began to examine the different papers lying on the little table, seeming to consult more than one attentively, as he turned them over. He laid them down, arranged them in a packet, which he pushed aside, and once more broke the silence:

“My son,” he said, “I must ask you other questions. You have mentioned Jenne. I was not even aware of the existence of this Jenne. It has been described to me. To tell the truth, I cannot understand why you ever went to Jenne.”

Benedetto smiled quietly, but did not attempt to justify himself, not wishing to interrupt the Pope, who continued:

“It was an unfortunate idea, for who can say what is really going on at Jenne? Do you know there are those up there, who look on you with little favour?”

In reply Benedetto only prayed His Holiness not to oblige him to answer.

“I understand,” the Pope said, “and, I must confess, your prayer is most Christian. You need not speak; but I cannot hide the fact that you have been accused of many things. Are you aware of this?”

Benedetto was aware of, or rather suspected, one accusation only. The Pope seemed the more embarrassed. He himself was calm.

“You are accused of having pretended at Jenne to be a miracle-worker, and by this boasting of yours, to have caused the death in your own house of an unfortunate man. They even assert that he died of certain drinks you gave him. You are accused of having preached to the people more as a Protestant than as a Catholic, and also——”

The Holy Father hesitated. His virginal purity recoiled from alluding to certain things.

“Of having been over-intimate with the village schoolmistress. What can you answer, my son?”

“Holy Father,” Benedetto said calmly, “the Spirit is answering for me in your heart.”

The Pontiff fixed his eyes on him, in great astonishment; but he was not only astonished, he was also much troubled; for it was as if Benedetto had read in his soul. A slight flush coloured his face.

“Explain your meaning,” he said.

“God has allowed me to read in your heart that you do not believe any of these accusations.”

At these words of Benedetto’s, the Pope knit his brows slightly.

“Now Your Holiness is thinking that I arrogate to myself a miraculous clairvoyance. No. It I is something which I see in your face, which I hear in your voice; poor, common, man that I am!”

“Perhaps you know who has recently visited me?” the Pope exclaimed.

He had summoned to Rome the parish priest of Jenne, and had questioned him concerning Benedetto. The priest, finding a Pope to his liking, a Pope who differed vastly from those two zealots who had intimidated him at Jenne, had seized the opportunity of thus easily making his peace with his own conscience, and had shown his remorse by praising and re-praising. Benedetto knew naught of this.

“No,” he answered, “I do not know.”

The Pontiff was silent; but his face, his hands, his whole person betrayed lively anxiety. Presently he leaned back in his great chair, let his head sink upon his breast, stretched out his arms, and rested his hands, side by side, on the little table. He was reflecting.

While he reflected, sitting motionless there, his eyes staring into space, the flame of the tiny petroleum lamp rose, red and smoky, in the tube. He did not notice it at once. When he did, he regulated it, and then broke the silence.

“Do you believe,” said he, “that you really have a mission?”

Benedetto answered with, an expression of humble fervour.

“Yes, I do believe it.”

“And why do you believe it?”

“Holy Father, because every one comes into the world with a mission written in his nature. Had I never had this vision, or received other extraordinary signs, my nature, which is eminently religious, would still have made religious action incumbent upon me. How can I say it? But I will say it”—here Benedetto’s voice trembled with emotion—“as I have said it to no one else, I believe, I know that God is the Father of us all; but I feel His paternity in my nature. Mine is hardly a sense of duty, it is a sense of sonship.”

“And do you believe it is your duty to exercise the religious action here and now?”

Benedetto clasped his hands, as if already imploring attention.

“Yes,” said he, “here also, and now.”

When he had spoken he fell upon his knees, his hands still clasped.

“Rise,” said the Holy Father. “Utter freely what the Spirit shall dictate.”

Benedetto did not rise.

“Forgive me,” he said, “my message is to the Pontiff alone, and here I am not heard by the Pontiff only.”

The Pope started, and gave him a questioning glance, full of severity.

Benedetto, looking towards a door behind the Pope, raised his eyebrows, and slightly lifted his chin.

His Holiness seized a silver bell which stood on the table, commanded Benedetto by a gesture to rise, and then rang the bell. The same priest as before appeared at the door of the Gallery. The Pope ordered him to summon Don Teofilo to the Gallery; Don Teofilo was the faithful valet whom he had brought with him from his archbishopric in the South. Upon his arrival the priest himself was to await His Holiness in the halls of the Library. “You will pass through this room, on your way back,” he said.

Several minutes elapsed. They awaited the priest’s return in silence. The Pontiff, lost in thought, never raised his eyes from the little table. Benedetto, standing, kept his eyes closed. He opened them when the priest reappeared. When he had passed out through the suspicious door, the Pope made a sign with his hand, and Benedetto spoke in a low voice. The Pontiff listened, grasping the arms of his chair, his body bent forward, his head bowed.

“Holy Father,” Benedetto said, “the Church is diseased. Four evil spirits have entered into her body, to wage war against the Holy Spirit. One is the spirit of falsehood. And the spirit of falsehood has transformed itself into an angel of light, and many shepherds, many teachers in the Church, many pious and virtuous ones among the faithful, listen devoutly to this spirit of falsehood, believing they are listening to an angel. Christ said: ‘I am the Truth.’ But many in the Church, even good and pious souls, separate truth in their hearts, have no reverence for that truth which they do not call ‘religious,’ fear that truth will destroy truth; they oppose God to God, prefer darkness to light, and thus also do they train men. They call themselves the faithful, and do not understand how weak, how cowardly is their faith, how foreign to them is the spirit of the apostle, which probes all things. Worshippers of the letter, they wish to force grown men to exist upon a diet fit for infants, which diet grown men refuse. They do not understand that though God be infinite and unchangeable, man’s conception, of Him grows ever grander from century to century, and that the same may be said of all Divine Truth. They are responsible for a fatal perversion of the Faith which corrupts the entire religious life; for the Christian, who by an effort, has bent his will to accept what they accept, to refuse what they refuse, believes he has accomplished the greatest thing in God’s service, whereas he has I accomplished less than nothing, and it remains for him to live his faith in the word of Christ, in the teachings of Christ; it remains for him to live the ‘fiat voluntas tua’’ which is everything. Holy Father, to-day few Christians know that religion does not consist chiefly in the clinging of the intellect to formulas of truth, but rather in actions, and a manner of life in conformity with this truth, and that the fulfilment of negative religious duties, and the recognition of obligations towards the ecclesiastical authority, do not alone correspond to true Faith. And those who know this, those who do not separate truth in their hearts, those who worship the God of truth, who are on fire with a fearless faith in Christ, in the Church and in truth—I know such men, Holy Father—those are striven against with acrimony, are branded as heretics, are forced to remain silent, and all this is the work of the spirit of falsehood, which for centuries has been weaving, in the Church, a web of traditional deceit, by means of which those who to-day are its servants believe they are serving God, as did those who first persecuted the Christians. Your Holiness—”

Here Benedetto sank upon one knee. The Pope did not move. His head seemed to have drooped still lower. The white skull-cap was almost entirely within the radius of the little lamp.

“I have read this very day, great words you spoke to your former 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: