“I thank you,” he said. “Pray, as I have surely taught some of you to do. And may God be with you always!”
A big, stout man answered, his face crimson:
“We will pray, but you are not going to die. Don’t believe that. But please give us your blessing.”
“Yes, give us your blessing, give us your blessing!” was repeated by many voices.
Meanwhile, from the narrow stairway the impatient voices could be heard of those who wished to come up, and could not. Benedetto said something in an undertone to Don Clemente. Don Clemente ordered those present to file past the bed and then leave the room, that the others might do the same.
One by one they all passed. They were poor people from the Testaccio—workmen, clerks from shops, women who sold fruit, pedlars and beggars. From time to time Benedetto said a word of dismissal, in a tired voice: “Addio.”—“Farewell!”—“We shall meet in Paradise.”—Some in passing silently bent the knee, others touched the bed and then made the sign of the cross. Some begged him to pray for them or for their dear ones, while others called down blessings upon him. One asked to be forgiven because he had believed the slanderers, and at that a series of “Forgive me also, me also!” sounded. The hunchback from Via della Marmorata was there, and began telling him amidst her tears that the old priest had confessed; and would have liked to tell him all her gratitude, had not those behind her pushed her away, and taken her from the sight of him for ever. Many passed thus before him for the last time, and, weeping, went from him, forever,—many he had comforted, in body and in mind. He recognised some, and greeted them with a gesture. On they passed, often turning their tearful faces back towards him. The stream that passed down brushed against the stream that passed up the narrow stairs, and gave them their impressions of the sorrowful room in advance:—“Ah! what a face.”—“Ah! what a voice!”—“Good God! he is dying!”—“He is one of God’s angels!”—“You will see!”—“He has Paradise in his eyes!” And not a few were murmuring curses against the wretches who had slandered him; not a few spoke, with a shudder, of poison, or murder. Dio!—He had been taken away by the police, and had returned in this state. A mournful, continuous rumbling of thunder, and the loud steady splash of the rain, drowned both the sorrowful and the angry whisperings. When the stream of people had ceased to flow out, Mayda had the window opened, for the air had become vitiated. Benedetto asked them to raise his head a little. He wanted to see the great pine-tree, with its top bending towards the Coelian Hill. The dark green crown of the pine cleft the stormy sky. He gazed at it a long time. When his head was resting on the pillow once more, he motioned to Dom Clemente to bend down to him, and whispered almost into his ear:
“Do you know, when they brought me here from the villa I longed to be laid under the pine-tree, which we see from the window, so that I might die there. But I thought at once that this was something too strongly desired, and that it was not good. And besides,” he added, smiling, “after all the habit would have been missing.”
A slight movement of Don Clemente’s lips revealed to him that he had brought the habit with him from Subiaco. Benedetto experienced a great wave of intense inward emotion. He clasped his hands, and remained silent as long as the inward struggle was going on, the struggle between the desire that the vision might be fulfilled, and the consciousness that its fulfilment could not come about naturally. He concentrated his mind in an act of abnegation to the Divine Will.
“The Lord wishes me to die here,” he said. “But still he permits me, at least, to have the habit on my bed, before I die.” Don Clemente bent over him, and kissed his forehead.
Meanwhile the Selvas were waiting a little way off. Benedetto called them to him, and told them that he would receive Signora Dessalle in half an hour, but he begged her not to come alone. She might come with them. Mayda went out with the Selvas. The sister was dozing. Then Benedetto asked Don Clemente to go to the Pontiff, afterwards, and to tell him that the end of the vision had not been fulfilled, that thus all that had seemed miraculous in his life had vanished and that before his death he had felt the sweetness of the Pope’s blessing.