In speaking of going to Subiaco or elsewhere, Benedetto had said "perhaps that, perhaps something else," with an accent so full of meaning that, when Don Clemente bade him farewell, he murmured:

"Are you thinking of Rome?"

Instead of answering, Benedetto gently took from his hands the bundle containing the poor tunic, which had been bestowed and then withdrawn, and with trembling hands raised it to his lips, pressing them to it; he let them rest there a long time.

Was it regret for the days of peace, of labour, of prayer, of gospel words? Was it the anticipation of a luminous hour in the future?

He gave the bundle back into his master's hands.

"Farewell!" said he.

Don Clemente hastened away.

The room the master of the house had set apart for Benedetto's use contained a large sofa, a small square table, covered with a yellowish cloth; over which a blue floral pattern sprawled; a few shaky chairs; one or two armchairs, their stuffing showing through the rents in the old and faded leather; and two portraits of bewigged ancestors in tarnished frames. It had two windows, one almost blinded by a grey wall, the other open to the fields, to a lovely, peaceful hill, to the sky. Before receiving his visitors Benedetto approached this window to take a last farewell of the fields, the hill, and the poor town itself. Seized with sudden weakness, he leaned against the sill. It was a gentle, pleasant weakness. He was hardly conscious of the weight of his body, and his heart was flooded with mystic beatitude. Little by little, as his thoughts became vague and objectless he was moved by a sense of the quiet, innocent, external life; the drops falling from the roofs, the air laden with odours of the hills, stirring mysteriously at that hour and in that place. The memory of distant hours of his early youth came back to him, of a time when he was still unmarried and had no thought of marriage. He recalled the close of a thunder storm in the upper Valsolda on the crest of the Pian Biscagno. How different his fate would have been had his parents lived thirty or even twenty years longer! At least one of them! In his mind's eye he saw the stone in the cemetery at Oria:

TO FRANCO IN GOD HIS LUISA;

and his eyes filled with tears. Then came the violent reaction of his will against this soft langour of the intellect, this temptation of weakness.

"No, no, no!" he murmured, half aloud. A voice behind him answered:

"You do not wish to listen to us?"

Benedetto turned round, surprised. Three young men stood before him. He had not heard them enter. The one who appeared to be the eldest, a fine-looking young fellow, short of stature, dark, with eyes speaking knowledge of many things, asked him boldly why he had laid aside the clerical dress. Benedetto did not reply.

"You do not wish to say?" the other exclaimed.

"It does not matter, but listen to us. We are students from the University of Rome, men of little faith, that I confess openly and at once. We are enjoying and making the most of our youth, that I will also confess at once."

One of his companions pulled a fold of the spokesman's coat.

"Be quiet!" said the leader. "It is true there is one among us who, though he has no great faith in the saints, is very pure. He, however, is not here before you. There are others missing also, who are playing cards at the tavern. The 'Most Pure' would not come with us. He says he will find a way of speaking with you alone. We are what I have told you. We came from Rome for an excursion, and, if possible, to witness a miracle; in fact, we came to have some fun!"

His companions interrupted him, protesting. "Yes, yes!" he repeated, "to have some fun! Excuse me, I speak frankly. Indeed our fun came near costing us too dear. We joked a little and they wanted to knock us down, you know; and all to your honour and glory! But then we heard the little speech you made to that crowd of fanatics. 'By the Lord Harry,' we thought, 'this is a new style of language for a priestly or half-priestly mouth! This is a saint who suits us better than the others!' Forgive my familiarity! So we at once decided to ask you for an interview; because even if we be rather sceptical, and fond of worldly pleasures, we are also more or less intellectual, and certain religious truths interest us. I myself, for instance, shall perhaps very shortly become a Neo-Buddhist."

His companions laughed, and he turned upon them angrily.

"Yes indeed! I shall not be a practical Buddhist, but Buddhism interests me more than Christianity!"

Then ensued an altercation among the three students, on account of this inopportune sally, and a second spokesman, tall, thin, and wearing spectacles, took the place of the first. This man spoke nervously, with frequent spasmodic movements of the head and stiff forearms. His discourse was to the following effect. He and his companions had often discussed the question of the vitality of Catholicism. They were all convinced that it was exhausted, and that speedy death could be prevented only by radical reform. Some considered such a reform possible, while others did not. They were anxious to have the opinion of an intelligent and modern-spirited Catholic such as Benedetto had shown himself. They had many questions to ask him.

At this point the third ambassador of the party of students, feeling that his turn had come, poured out upon Benedetto a disordered stream of questions.

Did he feel disposed to become the champion of a reform in the Church? Did he believe in the infallibility of the Pope, of the Council? Did he approve of the worship of the Virgin Mary and of the saints in its present form? Was he a Christian Democrat? What were his views concerning the desired reform? They had seen Giovanni Selva at Jenne. Was Benedetto acquainted with his works? Did he approve of cardinals being forbidden to go out on foot, and of priests not being allowed to ride a bicycle? What was his opinion of the Bible, and what did he believe concerning its inspiration?

Before answering, Benedetto looked steadily and severely at his young interlocutor.

"A physician," he began at last, "was reputed to be able to cure all diseases. A man, who did not believe in medicine, went to him out of curiosity, to question him about his art, his studies, his opinions. The physician let him talk on for some time; then he took his wrist, thus." Benedetto took the wrist of the one who had spoken first, and continued.

"He took it, and held it a moment in silence; then he said to him, 'My friend, your heart is affected. I read it first in your face, and now I feel the hammering of the carpenter who is making your coffin!"

The young man whose pulse he was pressing could not refrain from wincing.

"I do not mean you," said Benedetto. "The physician was speaking to the man who does not believe in medicine. And he continued, thus: 'Do you come to me for health and life? I will give you both. Are you not come for that? Then I have no time for you!' The man, who had always believed himself to be well, turned pale, and said. 'Master, I place myself in your hands; give me life!'"

The three students stood for a moment dum-founded. When they showed signs of coming to their senses, and of wishing to answer, Benedetto continued:

"If three blind men ask me for my lamp of truth what shall I reply? I shall reply, 'First go and prepare your eyes for it, because, should I give it unto your hands now, you would receive no light from it, and you would only break it.'"

"I hope," said the tall, lean, bespectacled student, "that in order to see your lamp of truth it may not be necessary to shut out the light of the sun. But, after all, I can easily understand that you do not wish to explain yourself to us, whom you believe to be reporters. To-day we are not—or at least I am not—in the state of mind you desire. I may be blind, but I do not feel inclined to ask the Pope for light, or a Luther either. Nevertheless, if you come to Rome, you will find young men better disposed than I am, than we are. Come, speak, let us also listen to you! To-day it is curiosity with us, to-morrow, who knows? we may feel the right spirit. Come to Rome!"

"Give me your name," said Benedetto.

The other offered him his card. His name was Elia Viterbo. Benedetto looked at him curiously.

"Yes, indeed," he said, "I am a Jew; but these two baptised ones are no better Christians than I am. I have, moreover, no religious prejudices."

The interview was over. As they were leaving, the youngest of the party, the man of the stream of questions, made a last onslaught.

"Tell us, at least, if you believe Catholics should vote on political questions?"

Benedetto was silent. The other insisted:

"Will you not answer even that question?"

Benedetto smiled.

"Non expedit," said he.

There were steps in the ante-room; two gentle taps at the door; the Selvas entered with Noemi. Maria Selva came in first, and seeing Benedetto dressed thus, could not restrain a movement of indignation, of regret, and a soft laugh; then she blushed and wished to speak a word of protest, but could not find the right one. The tears came to Noemi's eyes. All four were silent for a moment and understood each other. Then Giovanni murmured:

"'Non fu dal vel del cuor giawmai disciolto'"[*1*];

and pressed the hand of him who in his awkward garments still appeared august to him.

"But you must not wear these things!" exclaimed Maria, less mystic than her husband.

Benedetto made a gesture which said, "Let us not speak of that," and looked at the master of his master with eyes full of longing and reverence.

"Are you aware," said he, "how much truth and how much good have come to me from you?"

Giovanni did not know how strongly he had influenced this man through Don Clemente. He supposed he had read his books. He was moved, and in his heart thanked God, who was thus gently showing him that he had worked some real good in a soul.

"How happy I should have been," Benedetto continued, "to have worked in your garden,

[FN 1: "Of the heart's veil she never was divested." DANTE'S Paradiso, Canto iii.

(Longfellow's translation) ] have sometimes seen you, to have heard you speak!"

A stifled exclamation escaped Noemi when reminded of that evening full of memories she could not express. Giovanni took this opportunity of offering hospitality to Benedetto, Don Clemente having told him he intended leaving Jenne that night. They could leave together, if he wished, after the interview which he was going to grant Giovanni's sister-in-law. Noemi, very pale, looked fixedly at Benedetto for the first time, awaiting his answer.

"I thank you," said he. "If I knock at your door, you will throw it open to me. I can say no more at present."

Giovanni and his wife prepared to leave. Benedetto begged them to remain. Surely the Signorina had no secrets from them; at least not from her sister, if perhaps from her brother-in-law. Even this indirect appeal to Maria was of no avail, for Noemi remarked, with much embarrassment, that these secrets were not her own. The Selvas withdrew.

Benedetto remained standing, and did not invite Noemi to be seated. He was aware that a friend of Jeanne's stood before him, and he foresaw what was coming—a message from Jeanne.

"Signorina?" said he.

His manner was not discourteous, but signified clearly, "The quicker the better."

Noemi understood. She would have been offended had another person acted thus; but with Benedetto she was not offended. With him she felt humble.

"I have been requested to ask you," she began, "whether you know anything about a person with whom you must have been intimately acquainted, whom, I believe, you also loved very dearly? I am not sure I pronounce the name correctly, I am not an Italian. It is Don Giuseppe Flores."

Benedetto started. He had not expected this.

"No!" he exclaimed anxiously, "I know nothing."

Nomei gazed at him a moment in silence. Before continuing she would have liked to ask his forgiveness for the pain she was about to cause him. She said sadly and in a low tone:

"Some one has written to me to tell you that he is no longer of this world."

Benedetto bowed his head, and hid his face in his hands. Don Giuseppe, dear Don Giuseppe; dear, great, pure soul; dear luminous brow, dear eyes, full of God, dear, kind voice! Softly came two tears, which Noemi did not see; then he heard Don Giuseppe's voice saying within him, "Do you not feel that I am here, that I am with you, that I am in your heart?"

After a long silence Noemi said softly:

"Forgive me! I am sorry I was obliged to cause you so much pain."

Benedetto raised his head.

"Pain, and still not pain," said he. Noemi maintained a reverent silence. Benedetto asked if she knew when this person had passed away.

Towards the end of April, she believed. She was absent from Italy at the time. She was in Belgium, at Bruges, with a friend to whom the news had been sent. She had understood from her friend that that person—a sense of delicacy prevented Noemi from pronouncing the name—had died a very holy death. She had also been asked to say that his papers had been entrusted to the bishop of the city. Benedetto made a gesture of approval which might also serve to close the interview. Noemi did not move.

"I have not yet finished," she said, and hastened to add:

"I have a Catholic friend—I myself am not a Catholic, I am a Protestant—who has lost her faith in God. She has been advised to devote herself to deeds of charity. She lives with her brother, who is very hostile to all religions. This innovation, the fact that his sister interests herself in charities, that she associates with people who promote good works from religious principles, is most displeasing to him. At present he is ill; he becomes irritated, excited, protests against these virtuous bigots, does not wish his sister to visit the poor, to protect young girls, or to provide for abandoned children. He says all these things are clericalism, are utopianism, that the world wags in its own way, and that it must be allowed to wag in its own way, that all this associating with the lower classes only serves to put false and dangerous ideas into their heads. Now, my friend has been told that she must either leave her brother, or lie to him, by doing secretly what she has hitherto done openly. She is in sore need of sound advice! She writes to me to ask you for it. She has read in the newspapers that you are helping so many here in these hills, and she hopes you will not refuse."

"As her brother is ill, both bodily and mentally," Benedetto answered, "does she not find deeds of charity to perform in her own house? Will she arrive at a knowledge of God by becoming a bad sister? Let her give up her works of charity and devote herself to her brother; let her attend to his bodily ills, and to his moral ills, with all the affection"—he was going to say "which she bears him," but he corrected himself, that he might not thus clearly admit a knowledge of the person—"with all the affection of which she is capable; let her make herself precious to him; let her win him by degrees, without sermons, by her goodness alone. It will do her much good also, this striving to incarnate in herself true goodness, active, untiring, patient, prudent goodness. And she will win him, little by little, without words; she will persuade him that all she does is well done. Then she can take up her works of charity again, take them up alone, and she will succeed better. Now she performs them because she has been advised to do so, and perhaps she does not succeed very well. Then she will be prompted by the habit of goodness, acquired with her brother, and she will have better success."

"I thank you!" said Noemi. "I thank you for my friend, and also for myself, for I am much pleased with what you have said. And may I repeat your advice, your words of encouragement, in your name?"

The question seemed superfluous, because the words of encouragement and advice had been spoken by Benedetto in direct answer to the friend. But Benedetto was troubled. It was an explicit message which Noemi asked of him for Jeanne.

"Who am I?" he said. "What authority do I possess? Tell her I will pray!"

Noemi was trembling inwardly. It would have been so easy now to speak to him of religion! And she did not dare. Ah! but to lose such an opportunity! No, she must speak; but she could not reflect a quarter of an hour upon what she should say. She said the first thing that came into her head.

"I beg your pardon, but as you speak of praying, I should like to ask you if you really approve of all my brother-in-law's religious views?"

As soon as she had uttered the question, it seemed to her so impertinent, so awkward, that she was ashamed. She hastened to add, conscious she was saying something still more foolish, but, nevertheless, feeling impelled to say it. "Because my brother-in-law is a Catholic, and I am a Protestant, and I should like to know what to believe."

"Signorina," Benedetto answered, "the day will come when all shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth, upon the hilltops; to-day it is best to worship Him in the shadows, in figures, from deep Valleys. Many there are who can rise, some higher than others, towards the spirit and the truth; but many cannot. There are plants which bear no fruit above a certain altitude, and if carried still higher, they die. It would be folly to remove them from the climate which suits them. I do not know you, and I cannot say if your brother-in-law's religious views, planted without preparation in you, would bear good fruit. But I advise you to study Catholicism carefully, with Signor Selva's help; for there is not one conscientious Protestant who knows it well."

"You will not come to Subiaco?" Noemi inquired timidly.

A note of hidden melancholy rang in her voice, and aroused in Benedetto's heart a sense of sweet pain, which at once turned to fear, so new was it.

"No," said he, "I think not."

Noemi wished, and still did not wish to say she was sorry. She pronounced some confused words.

They heard some one in the ante-room. Noemi bowed, and Benedetto doing the same, the interview came to an end, without any further leave taking.

The Duchess also was anxious to speak with Benedetto. She brought her companions, both male and female, with her. No longer young, but still frivolous, half superstitious, half sceptical, egotistical but not heartless, she was devoted to the consumptive daughter of her old coachman, Having heard of the Saint of Jenne and his miracles, she had arranged this excursion, partly for amusement, partly to satisfy her curiosity, and she wished to ascertain if it would be wiser to have the Saint come to Rome, or to send the girl to him. At the house of a cardinal, her cousin, she had become acquainted with one of the priests now staying at Jenne, This man, having met her, had given her his own opinion of the Saint, announcing the downfall of his reputation. But, as the Duchess had little confidence in any priest, and was curious to know a man to whom such a romantic past was attributed, and as her companions—one woman in particular—shared her curiosity she resolved, at any cost, to find a means of approaching him.

An elderly, English gentlewoman was of her party; a lady famous for her wealth and her peculiar toilettes, for her theosophic and Christian mysticism, metaphysically in love with the Pope and also with the Duchess who laughed at her friends. These friends, on beholding Benedetto in that strange outfit, exchanged glances and smiles which very nearly became giggles; but the elderly Englishwoman forestalling them all constituted herself their spokeswoman. She said, in bad French, that she was aware she was speaking to a man of culture, that she, with her friends, of both sexes and of all nationalities, was working to unite all Christian Churches under the Pope, reforming Catholicism in certain particulars which were really too absurd, and which no one honestly believed were of any further use, such particulars as ecclesiastical celibacy and the dogma of hell. She needed a saint to accomplish these reforms. Benedetto would be that saint, because a spirit (she herself was not a spiritualist, but a friend of hers was), the Spirit of the Countess Blavatzky herself, had revealed this fact. It was therefore necessary that he should come to Rome, and there his saintly gifts would also enable him to render a service to the Duchess di Civitella, here present. She ended her discourse thus:

"Nous vous attendons absolument, monsieur! Quittez ce vilain trou! Quittez-le bientot! Bientot!"

Having let his stern gaze wander rapidly round the circle of mocking or stolid faces, from the Duchess's lorgnon to the journalist's eye-glass, Benedetto replied:

"A l'instant, madame!"

And he left the room.

He left the room and the house, crossed the square, walking awkwardly in his ill-fitting clothes, and, without looking to right or left, took the road leading down the slope, impelled by his spirit rather than by the weakened powers of his body. He intended to pass the night under some tree, and, on the morrow, go to Subiaco; from there, with Don Clemente's aid, he would go to Tivoli, where he knew a good old priest, who was in the habit of coming to Santa Scolastica from time to time. He no longer thought of accepting the Selvas' hospitality, which would have been precious to him. His heart was pure and at peace, but he could not forget that the young foreign girl's sweet voice, and the tone of sadness in which she had said "You will not come to Subiaco?" had awakened strange echoes within him, and that in that one second the thought had flashed across his mind: "Had Jeanne been like this, I should not have left her!" The mystics were right; penance and fasting were of no avail. But it had all disappeared now. Only the humiliating sense of a frailty essentially human remained, which, though it may have come forth triumphant from hard trials, may also reappear unexpectedly, and be overthrown by a breath. The little town was deserted. The storm over, the people from Trevi, Filettino, and Vallepietra had started homeward, discussing the events of the morning, the case of doubtful healing, and that in which the healing had not been effected, the warnings which had been swiftly sown by hidden hands against the corrupter of the people, the false Catholic. On leaving the town Benedetto was seen by two or three women of Jenne. The secular garments filled them with amazement; they concluded he had been excommunicated and allowed him to pass in silence.

A few steps beyond, some one who was running overtook him. It was a slender, fair lad, with blue eyes full of intelligence.

"Are you going to Rome, Signor Maironi?" he said.

"I beg you not to call me by that name!" Benedetto answered, ill-pleased to find that his name, who knows by what means, had been revealed. "I do not yet know whether I go to Rome."

"I shall follow you," the young man said, impulsively.

"You will follow me? But why should you follow me?"

In reply the young man took his hand, and, in spite of Benedetto's resistance and protests, raised it to his lips.

"Why?" said he. "Because I am sick of the world, and could not find God, and to-day it Seems to me that, through you, I have been born to happiness! Please, please, let me follow you!

"Caro [dear one];" Benedetto replied, greatly moved, "I myself do not know whither I shall go!"

The young man entreated him to say, at least, when he should see him again, and exclaimed, seeing Benedetto really did not know what to answer:

"Oh! I shall see you in Rome! You will surely go to Rome!"

Benedetto smiled:

"In Rome? And how will you find me there?"

The lad answered that he would certainly be talked of in Rome, that every one would know where to find him.

"If it be God's will!" said Benedetto, with an affectionate gesture of farewell.

The lad detained him a moment, holding his hand.

"I am a Lombard also," said he. "I am Alberti, from Milan. Do not forget me!"

And his intense gaze followed Benedetto until he disappeared at a bend of the mule-path.

* * * * *

At sight of the cross with its great arms, rising on the brow of the hill, Benedetto suddenly shuddered with emotion, and was obliged to stop. When he once more started forward he was seized with giddiness. Swaying, he stepped aside a few yards, leaving the way free for passers-by, and sank upon the grass, In a hollow of the field. Then, closing his eyes, he realised that this was no passing disturbance, but something far more serious. He did not become entirely unconscious, but he lost the sense of hearing and of touch, his memory, and all account of time. When he first recovered his senses, the feeling on the backs of his hands, of the coarse cloth, different from that of his usual habit, filled him with a curiosity, rather amused than troubled, concerning his own identity. He felt his breast, the buttons, the button-holes, without understanding. He thought. A boy from Jenne, who passed near him in the field, ran to the town and reported excitedly that the Saint was lying dead on the grass, near the cross.

Benedetto reflected, with that shade of cloudy reason which governs us when we sleep and when we first awake. These were not his clothes. They were Piero Maironi's clothes. He was still Piero Maironi. This thought terrified him, and he recovered his senses completely. He rose to a sitting posture, looked at himself, looked about him at the field and the hills, veiled in the shades of evening. At sight of the great cross, his mind regained its composure. He felt ill, very ill. He tried to rise to his feet, but found it difficult to do so. Directing his steps towards the mulepath, he asked himself what he should do in that condition. Some one coming swiftly down the path from Jenne stopped before him; he heard the exclamation: "Oh! my God! it is you!" He recognised the voice of the woman who had spoken so passionately to him while the storm was raging. She alone of all those at Jenne who had heard the boy's story had come to him. The others had either not believed or not wished to believe. She had come running, and mad with grief. Now she had stopped suddenly, and stood speechless, not two steps from him. He, not suspecting she had come on his account, wished her good-night and passed on. She did not return his salutation, for, after the first moment of joy, she was distressed to see him walk with such difficulty, and she did not dare to follow him. She saw him stop and speak to a man riding a mule, who was coming up. She rushed forward to hear what was said. The man was a muleteer, sent by the Selvas to look for Benedetto. The Selvas, with two mules for the ladies, had left Jenne soon after him, thinking to overtake him on the hillside. Reaching the Anio without having seen him, they questioned a passer-by coming from Sublaco. He could give them no news of Benedetto. Noemi, who was to take the last train for Tivoli, went on with Giovanni, hiding her disappointment. The muleteer had been sent back to Jenne to look for Benedetto, and to fetch a parasol which had been forgotten at the inn. Maria was awaiting his return among the rocks of the Infernillo. The young school-mistress heard Benedetto ask the muleteer to bring him a little water from Jenne, for the sake of charity. The two men were still talking, but she sped away, without waiting to hear more.

After a brief consultation with the muleteer, Benedetto had consented to ride down to where Signora Selva was waiting. Left alone, he seated himself near the cross, and waited for the man to return with the water and the parasol. The crescent moon was rising, gilding the bright sky, above the hills of Arcinazzo; the evening was warm and breathless. Benedetto felt his temples throb and burn; his breath came quick and short, but he suffered no pain. The sweet-scented grass of the field, the scattered trees, the great shadowy hills, all, to him, was alive, was filled with religion; all was sweet with a mystery of adoring love which bent even the crescent moon towards the heights in the opalescent sky. Don Giuseppe Flores whispered in his heart that it would be sweet to die thus with the day, praying in unison with the innocent things.

Hurried steps were heard in the direction of Jenne. They stopped a short distance from him. A little girl came towards Benedetto, timidly offered him a bottle of water and a glass, and then turned and fled. Benedetto, astonished, called her to him. She came slowly, shyly, and did not answer when he asked her name, her parents' name. A voice said:

"She is the innkeeper's child."

Benedetto recognised the voice and the person also, though the moonlight was pale; she had remained at a distance, prompted by the same sense of delicacy which had moved her to bring the child with her.

"I thank you," said he. She came a little nearer, holding the child by the hand, and asked softly:

"Do you know the priests have been talking to the dead man's mother? Do you know the woman now accuses you of killing her son?"

Benedetto replied with some severity in his tone:

"Why do you tell me this?"

She saw she had displeased him by repeating this accusation, and exclaimed in distress;

"Oh! forgive me!"

Presently she added:

"May I ask you a question?"

"Speak."

"Shall you never return to Jenne?"

"Never."

The woman was silent. They could hear steps approaching in the distance; it was the muleteer and his mule. She said in a lower tone:

"For pity's sake, one word more! How do you picture to yourself the future life? Do you believe we shall meet those we have known in this life?"

If the moonlight had not been so pale, Benedetto would have seen two great tears rolling down the young girl's face.

"I believe," he replied, "that until the death of our planet, our future life will be one of labour upon it, and that all those minds which aspire to truth, to unity, will meet there, and labour together." The muleteer's hobnailed shoes, which grated among the pebbles, could be heard very near them. The woman said:

"Addio! Farewell!"

The tears sounded in her voice now. Benedetto answered:

"A Dio! God be with you!"

Mounted on the mule, he goes down into the shadows of the valley. He is burning with fever. He is going to Casa Selva, after all. He knows, for the muleteer has told him, that he will not see Noemi there; but that is indifferent to him, he does not fear her, does not even remember the moment of gentle emotion. Another feverish thought is stirring in his soul. There is a whirl of words spoken by Don Clemente, by the lad Alberti, by the elderly Englishwoman, while fragments of the Vision flash like pictures before his mind's eye. Yes, he will go to Casa Selva, but only for a short time. As he ascends, the mighty voice of the Anio roars louder, ever louder, out of the depths:

"Rome! Rome! Rome!"



CHAPTER VI. THREE LETTERS

JEANNE TO NOEMI. VENA DI FONTE ALTA, July 4,——

Forgive me if I write to you in pencil. I have just reread your letter here, at a point half an hour distant from the hotel, seated on the edge of a stone basin where the flocks come to drink. The tiny stream of water which trickles into the basin from a small wooden pipe reminds me, with its gentle voice, of something which makes my heart ache; a walk with him across fields and through woods in the mist; a halt by this very spring, painful words, a few tears, something written in the water, a moment of happiness—the last. I made a great sacrifice for Carlino's sake when I returned to Vena after an absence of three years. I have always loved him, but the message from Jenne would make me face far greater sacrifices than this for him, make me face them willingly, though conscious of having lost all merit in them.

I am not satisfied with your letters; I will tell you why sometime, but not now. It is too difficult to write here. The mist is rolling down from the uplands high above the spring, and a cold west wind is blowing. I must be careful of my health on Carlino's account, and this is another sacrifice, for I hate my health!

Later.

Noemi, could you not contrive to let the enclosed half-sheet of paper, upon which I have written in pencil, fall into his hands? You hesitate to tell him how obedient I am; could you not, at least, help me to let him know it in this way?

I am not satisfied with your letters, first of all because they are too short. You know how eager I am to hear all about him. He is a guest in the same house with you; at Subiaco he can surely not know how to employ his time, and you sum up everything in two or three words!—He is better. He reads a great deal. He has been working in the kitchen-garden. Perhaps he will spend the summer with us. He writes.—And you have never yet told me what malady he is really suffering from, what he reads, where he will go if he does not spend the summer with you, whether he writes letters or books, and what you talk about together, for it is not possible that you never talk together. Do not repeat your excuse that the less you speak of him, the better it is for me. That is a convenient excuse you have invented, but it is foolish, because, whether you talk to me of him or not, it is all the same. My hopes are quite dead; they will not revive. Then write me long letters, I am sure he wishes to convert you, that you have very serious talks together, and that is why you tell me so little about him. It would not be a very glorious achievement to convert you, for you are sentimental in matters of religion; you do not possess that clear, cold, and positive insight which is, unfortunately, natural to me, and which I wish I did not possess.

When do you intend to return to Belgium? Do not your affairs there need your attention? You once mentioned an agent in whom you had little confidence. We shall probably travel in August. At least, that is what Carlino says at present, but he changes his mind very easily. I should like to visit Holland with you, in September. Good-bye! Please write. If he reads much you might get him to lend you a book, and leave the half-sheet of paper in it as a book-mark, At any rate, find some way. That or something else; you are a woman! Contrive some means, if you love me! But I really believe you no longer love me at all! You would confess it if you told the truth! However, there is a lady at this hotel who is in love with me! Laugh, if you like, but it is true. She lives in Rome. Her husband is Under-Secretary of State. She is determined that I shall spend next winter in Rome. It will depend upon Carlino. This lady lays siege to him; he lets himself be besieged, and neither resists nor capitulates. Good-bye. Write, write, and again write!

NOEMI TO JEANNE (from the French)

I did still better! In my presence, my brother-in-law cited from memory a Latin passage which impressed him, concerning certain monks of ancient times, before Christ. He begged Giovanni to write it down for him. We were in the olive-grove above the villetta, seated on the grass. I immediately passed a pencil to Giovanni, and the half-sheet of paper, with the blank side uppermost. He wrote, and Maironi took the paper, read the Latin passage, and put the sheet into his pocket, without looking at the other side. It was an act of treason, and I have been guilty of treason for love of you. Will you ever doubt me again?

What can I tell you about his illness which I have not told you already? He was troubled with fever for about two weeks. One day the physician would pronounce it typhoid, and the next he would say it was not. At last the fever left him, but his strength has not returned completely; he is very thin; he seems to have some persistent, internal ailment; the doctor is very particular about the quality of his food; he has changed his way of living, eats meat and drinks a little wine. Yesterday a friend of Giovanni's came from Rome to see him; the famous Professor Mayda, Giovanni begged him to examine Maironi, and to advise him. He recommended some waters, which Maironi will certainly not take. I feel I know him well enough to be sure of that. However, during the last week he has improved rapidly. In the morning and evening he works a little in the kitchen-garden. This morning he rose very early, and what should he do but take it into his head to wash down the stairs! Yesterday Maria scolded the old servant because the stairs were not clean. When the old woman, who sleeps at Subiaco, arrived at seven o'clock, she found Maironi had done the work for her. My sister and my brother-in-law reproached him; Giovanni was almost severe, perhaps because he is so different from Maironi, and would never think of touching a broom, even if he lived in a cloud of cobwebs! What does Maironi read? He has never but once spoken to me of what he reads, and then only for a moment, as I shall tell you later. I wrote you that perhaps he would spend the summer with us, for I know Maria and Giovanni wish it. I now have a presentiment that he will not stay, but will go to Rome. This, however, is only my impression; I have no positive knowledge.

As to his wishing to convert me, I do not know whether it would be an easy task or not, or whether Maironi thinks anything about it. You will notice that I call him Maironi in writing to you; in speaking to him I call him simply Benedetto, for that is his wish. I am sure Giovanni once thought of converting me. He found it so easy that he never speaks of it to me now. I should not think the same of Maironi. I believe that to him Christianity means, above all things, actions and life according to the spirit of Christ, of the risen Christ who lives for ever among us, of whom we have, as he puts it, the experience. It seems to me that the object of his religious mission is, not the placing of the creed of one Christian Church before another, although there is no doubt the holiness of the life he leads is strictly Catholic. Whenever I have heard him speak of dogmas, with Giovanni, it has never been to discuss the difference between Church and Church, but rather to expound certain formulas of faith, and to show what a strong light emanates from them when they are expounded in a certain way. Giovanni himself is past-master at this, but when Giovanni speaks you are impressed above all, by the immense store of knowledge his mind contains; when Maironi speaks you feel that the living Christ is in his heart, the risen Christ, and he fires you! In order to be perfectly, scrupulously sincere, I will tell you that although I do not think he intends to convert me, still I am not very sure of this. One day we were in the olive-grove. He and Giovanni were discussing a German book on the essence of Christianity, which, it seems, has made a stir, and was written by a Protestant theologian. Maironi observed that, when this Protestant speaks of Catholicism, he does so with a most honest intention of being impartial, but that, in reality, he does not know the Catholic religion. His opinion is that no Protestant does really know it; they are all of them full of prejudices, and believe certain external and remediable abuses in its practices to be essential to Catholicism. There was a basket of apricots standing near, and he chose one which had been very fine, but which was beginning to rot. "Here," said he, "is an apricot, which is slightly rotten. If I offer this apricot to one who does not know, but who wishes to be amiable, he will tell me that part of it is indeed firm and good, but that, unfortunately, part of it is diseased, and therefore, though he much regrets it, he cannot accept it. Thus this illustrious Protestant speaks of Catholicism. But if I offer my apricot to one who knows, he will accept it even if it be entirely rotten; and he will plant the immortal seed in his own garden, in the hope of raising fine, healthy fruit." These remarks he addressed to Giovanni, but his eyes sought mine continually. I must add that at Jenne also, he told me to learn to understand Catholicism. At any rate, if I remain a Protestant, it will not be because I do or do not understand, but rather in obedience to my most sacred feelings.

My dear Jeanne, there is something else I must tell you plainly. I have a suspicion that you are jealous, I believe you do not realise the inexpressible grief you would cause me, if this were really the case. I fear you do not realise the immense gravity of the offence it would be, first to him and then to me. Now I am going to open my heart to you. I should reproach myself if I did not do so, dear friend, reproach myself on your account, on his, and on my own. As to him, he is kind and gentle to all with whom he comes in contact, especially to the humble, and you might even be jealous of the old woman who comes from Subiaco to do the rough work in the house. With Maria and myself he shows his kindness and gentleness silently rather than in words. With us he is quiet, simple, and affable; he does not appear to wish to avoid us, but it has never happened that he has remained alone with either of us. In his eyes I am a soul, and souls are to him exactly what the tiniest plants in my father's great garden were to him; he would have liked to protect them from frost with the warmth of his own heart, and make then grow and flower by communicating his own vitality to them. But I am a soul like any other soul, the only difference perhaps being, that he deems me further removed from the truth, and consequently more exposed to frost. But this is not apparent in his bearing.

As to myself, dearest, I certainly have a deep feeling for him, but it would be abominable to say that this feeling in the least resembles what men call by the familiar name. This sentiment is one of reverence, of a kind of devout fear, of awe; I feel his person is surrounded by something like a magic circle, into which I should never dare to penetrate. My heart beats no faster in his presence. I think, indeed, it beats more slowly but of this I am not sure. Dear Jeanne, I could not possibly speak more honestly than I have done, therefore I beg you, I entreat you, not to imagine anything different!

For the present I am not thinking of going to Belgium. I may possibly go there for a short time, later on. My kind regards to your brother. I should like to know if he has sent the old priest and the young woman to Formalhaut at last! I myself sometimes think of his Formalhaut! Tell him that if you and he come to Rome this winter, we will make music together. Good-bye I embrace you!

BENEDETTO TO DON CLEMENTE

(Never sent)

Padre mio, the Lord has departed from my soul, not, indeed, giving me up to sin, but He has taken from me all sense of His presence, and the despairing cry of Jesus Christ on the cross thrills, at times, through my whole being. If I strive to concentrate all my thoughts in the one thought of the Divine Presence, all my senses in an act of submission to the Divine Will, I derive only pain and discouragement from it. I feel like the beast of burden which falls under its load, and which, at the first cut of the whip, makes an effort to rise, and falls again; at a second blow, at a third, or a fourth, it only shivers, and does not attempt to rise. If I open the Gospels or the Imitation, I find no flavour in them. If I recite prayers, weariness overpowers me, and I am silent. If I prostrate myself upon the ground, the ground freezes me. If I make complaint to God at being treated thus, His silence seems to grow more hostile. If, on the authority of the great mystics, I say to myself that I am wrong to feel such affection for spiritual joys, to suffer thus when deprived of them, I answer myself that the mystics err, that in the state of conscious grace one walks safely, but that in this starless night of spiritual darkness one cannot see the way; there is no other rule than to withdraw one's foot when it touches the soft grass, and that is not sufficient, for there is also the danger of setting the foot in empty space. Father, Padre mio, open your arms to me, that I may feel the warmth of your breast, filled with God! There are a hundred reasons why I should not go to Santa Scolastica, and in any case I should prefer to write. You are here present with me more than in the body; I can become one with you, can mingle with you more easily than if you stood before me; and I need to mingle with you in thought, I need to force my soul into yours. Perhaps I shall send you this letter, but perhaps I shall not send it. Father, father! it does me more good to write to you than to speak to you! I could not speak with the fire which now rushes to my pen, and which would not rush to my lips. Writing, I speak, I cry out to the immortal in you, I divest you of all that is mortal even in your soul, and which in your presence would extinguish my fire. I divest you of the mortality of an incomplete knowledge of things, of prudence, which would prompt you to veil your thoughts. No, I will not send this letter, but nevertheless it will reach you. I will burn it, but still it will reach you; for it is not possible that my silent cry should not come to you, perhaps now, in the darkness of the night, while you sleep, perhaps in two hours' time, still in the darkness of the night, while you pray with the brothers, in the dear church, where we worshipped so often together.

I know why I am wretched, I know why God has forsaken me. Always when God forsakes me, when all the living springs of my soul are dry, and the living germs are parched, and my heart becomes as a dead sea, I know the reason why. It is because I have heard sweet music behind me, and have looked back; or because the wind has brought me the scent of blossoming fields beside my path, and I have paused; or because the mist has risen before me, and I have been afraid; or because a thorn has pierced my foot, and I have felt vexation. Moments, flashes, but in that moment the door opens, an evil breath enters! It is always thus: an earnest glance, a word of praise enjoyed, an image lingered over, an offence recalled, any one of these suffices; the evil breath has time to enter.

And now all of these causes are joined together! Darkness descended upon my path; I set my foot in the soft grass, I felt it; I withdrew my foot, but not at once. Why do I speak in figures? Write, write the naked truth, cowardly hand! Write that this house is a nest of ease, and that, if I have enjoyed the soft bed, the fine linen, the odour of lavender, I have delighted still more in the conversation of Giovanni Selva, in the readings, which have filled me with the joys of the intellect, in the presence of two young and pure women, cultured and full of grace, in their secret admiration, in the perfume of a sentiment which I believe one of them harbours, in the vision of a life of retirement in this nest, with these beings, far from all that is vulgar, all that is low, unclean, and loathsome.

I have felt the sin of the world with the repulsion which shrinks from it, and not with the fiery sorrow which braves it and wrests souls from its clutches. Moments, flashes; I took refuge, as in times past, in the embrace of the cross; but, little by little, the cross turned to unfeeling, dead wood in my arms, and this was not as in times past! I told myself, "Spirits of evil, strong and cunning powers of the air, are conspiring against me, against my mission." I answered myself, "Pride, be gone!" And then the first idea took possession of me once more. In this sad manner I rocked to and fro, every day, and all day long. And because I did not allow any part of all this to transpire, because I understood that Signor Giovanni and the ladies did not doubt I was inwardly as calm, as pure as I was externally; I despised myself at certain moments for a hypocrite, only to tell myself the next moment that, on the contrary, my pure and calm exterior helped me to live—I allude to the spiritual life—that by appearing strong, I was forced to be strong. I compared myself to a tree whose marrow has been destroyed by worms, whose wood is rotten, but which still lives through its bark, by means of which it produces leaves and flowers, and can spread welcome shade. Then I told myself that this was good reasoning before men; but was it good reasoning before God, before God? And again I told myself that God could heal me, for though the tree may not be healed yet a man may be made whole. Again my mind was tormented, because I was incapable of doing what God would demand of me, in order that my will might once more work in unison with His. He would order me to flee, to flee! God is in the voice of the Anio, which, since the evening of my departure from Jenne, has been saying: "Rome, Rome, Rome!" And God is also in the strength of the invisible worms, which have gnawed the vital virtues of my body. Am I then to blame? Am I then to blame? Lord, hear my groan, which asks for justice!

I have said many times that I will leave as soon as I am strong enough, but they wish to keep me here, and how can I say to them "My friends, you are my enemies?" Behold my cowardice! Why can I not say so? Why should I not say so?

One day I read in the young Protestant girl's glance the question: "If you go, what will become of my soul? Should you not desire to lead me to your faith? I will not yet allow myself to be led." No, I cannot, I must not write all. How can I write the meaning of a glance, the accent of a word, commonplace in itself? They are not such glances as drove St. Jerome to plunge into icy water, or at least my emotion does not resemble his. Icy water is of no avail against a glance which is all sweet purity. Only fire can prevail against it, the fire of the Supreme Love! Ah! who will free me from my mortal heart, whose faintest throb thrills all the fibres of my body? Who will set free the immortal heart which is within it, like the germ of a fruit, preparing for itself a celestial body? I cannot, I must not write all, but this, indeed, I will write: The Lord seeks to ensnare me, to entrap me! When I shall have fallen, He will deride me! Why did it happen that I wrote the Latin quotation about those who live and do penance between the Dead Sea and the desert, "Sine pecunia, sine ulla femina, omni venere abdicata socia palmarum," on that piece of paper, which on the other side bore words from J. D., words still hot concerning my past sin and hers, words reminding me of the most terrible moments? How did a person so timid dare to force a secret communication upon me?

The wind has blown my window open. Oh! Anio, Anio! will you never tire of your commanding? I must start now, at once? Impossible, the doors are locked. Moreover, it would be shame to leave thus. I should be dishonouring God; they would say "what ungrateful, what mad servants has the Lord!" Come, spirit of my master, come, come! Speak to me; I will listen. What have you to say to me? What have you to say to me? Ah! you smile at my tempest; you tell me to leave, yes, but to leave honourably, to announce that the Lord Himself commands my departure. You tell me to obey the voice of God in the Anio. Now the wind is ceasing; as if satisfied, it seems to be growing quiet. Yes, yes, yes, with tears! To-morrow, to-morrow morning! I will announce it. And I know to whom I shall go in Rome. Oh! light, oh! peace, oh! springs burst forth again in my soul: oh! dead sea, swelling with a wave of warmth! Yes, yes, yes, with tears! I return thanks! I return thanks! Glory be to Thee, our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come: Thy will be done!



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."