“Since this morning,” said he, “I have been warned by certain signs that the Lord’s will concerning me is changed; but I have not been able to understand in what way. You know what happened to me three years ago in that little church where I was praying, while my poor wife lay dying?”
“You allude to your vision?”
“No; before the vision—having closed my eyes—I read on my eyelids the words of Martha: ‘Magister adest et vocat te!’ This morning, while you were saying Mass, I saw the same words within me. I believed this to be an automatic revulsion of memory. After the communion I had a moment of anxiety, for it seemed to me Christ was saying in my soul: ‘Dost thou not understand, dost thou not understand, dost thou not understand?’ I passed the day in a state of continual agitation, although I strove to tire myself more than usual in the garden. In the afternoon I sat reading a short time under the ilex tree, where the Fathers congregate. I had St. Augustine’s De Opere Monachorum. Some people passed on the upper road, talking in loud voices. I raised my head mechanically. Then, I cannot tell why, but instead of resuming my reading, I closed the book and fell to thinking. I thought of what St. Augustine says about manual labour for monks, I thought of the order of St. Benedict, of Rancé, and of how the Benedictine order might again return to manual labour. Then, in a moment of weariness, but with my heart still full of the immense grandeur of St. Augustine, I believed I heard a voice from the upper world crying: ‘Magister adest et vocat te!’ Perhaps it was only an hallucination, only because of St. Augustine, only some unconscious memory of the ‘Tolle, lege’; I do not deny this, but, nevertheless, I trembled, trembled like a leaf. And I asked myself fearfully, Does the Lord wish me to become a monk? You know, Padre mio—I have repeated it to you on two or three occasions—that in one particular, at least, this would correspond with the end of my vision. But when you counselled me, as did also Don Giuseppe Flores, not to put faith in this vision, I told you that, to me, another reason for not putting faith in it was that I do not feel myself worthy to be a priest, and, furthermore, that the idea of joining any religious order is strangely repugnant to me. But what if God should enjoin it upon me! What if this great repugnance be but a trial! I wished to speak to you when we were on our way to the Selvas’, but you were in haste to be there, and so it was not possible. There, seated on the bundle of fagots under the acacias, I received the last blow. I was weary, very weary, and for five minutes allowed myself to be overcome by sleep, I dreamt that I was walking with Don Giuseppe Flores under the arches of the courtyard at Praglia. I said to him weeping: ‘Here, it was here!’ And Don Giuseppe answered with great tenderness: ‘Yes, but do not think of that, think rather that the Lord calls you.’ And I replied: ‘But whither, whither does He call me?’ My anguish was so great that I awoke. I heard a voice calling from the top of the house, and some one answered in French from the bottom of the garden. I saw a lady leave the villa, running. I heard the greetings she exchanged with the new-comers; I distinguished her voice! At first I was not sure of it, but presently, the voices coming nearer, I could no longer doubt. It was she! For a second I was dazed, but only for a second. Then a great light shone out in my mind.”
Benedetto raised his head and his clasped hands. His voice rang with mystic ardour. “Magister adest,” said he. “Do you understand? The divine Master was with me, I had naught to fear, Padre mio! And I feared naught, neither her, nor myself. I saw her coming up to the open space. My thought was: ‘If we meet alone, I will speak to her as to a sister, I will beg her forgiveness; perhaps God will give me a word of truth for her. I will show her that I have hopes for her soul, and that I do not fear for my own.” Don Clemente could not refrain from interrupting him.
“No, no, no, my son!” he exclaimed, greatly alarmed; and while he held the young man’s face imprisoned between his hands, he was casting about in his mind for a means of preventing such a meeting, and of getting Benedetto away. The Selvas, the Selvas! they must be warned!
“I can understand why you speak thus to me,” Benedetto resumed, breathlessly; “but if I meet her, must I not seek to give her of the good that is in me, as I once sought to give her of the evil? And have not you yourself taught me that placing the saving of our own souls above all things is incompatible with the love of God above all things? That when we love truly we do not think of ourselves? That we strive only to do the will of the person beloved, and desire that others do the same? That thus we are sure of salvation, and that he who constantly has in mind the saving of his own soul risks losing it?”
“That is very true, very true, my dear friend,” answered the Padre, stroking his hair. “But nevertheless to-morrow you must go to Jenne, and remain there until I send for you. I will give you a letter to the parish priest, who is a most worthy man, and you can stay with him. Do you understand? And now we will go to the monastery, for it is late!”
He rose and obliged Benedetto to do the same. Above their heads the clock of Santa Scolastica was ringing the hour. Was it ten o’clock, or was it eleven? Don Clemente had not counted the strokes from the beginning, and feared the worst; for with all these conflicting emotions he had lost account of time. What was going to happen? Who could have foreseen? And what would take place now? They left the grassy plateau and started up the steep and rocky mule-path, Don Clemente in front, and Benedetto following close behind; both silent and with stormy souls, while the deep voice of the Anio answered their thoughts. At a bend of the path they see the lights of distant Subiaco. Only a few, however, so it is probably eleven o’clock! Presently a dark corner of the inclosure of Santa Scolastica looms before the wayfarers. Benedetto is thinking by what a mysterious way God has led him from the logge at Praglia, where Jeanne tempted and conquered him, to this toilsome ascent amidst the gloom towards another holy spot, with Jeanne near, and his heart anchored in Christ.
In the meantime, the reasons for practical prudence which pressed upon Don Clemente at this time of distress, and the reasons for ideal holiness which in calmer moments he had taught his beloved disciple, were contending for supremacy over Benedetto’s will, no longer so steadfast as in the beginning; the first striving at close quarters, and with imperious violence; the second, from a distance and by means only of their stern and sad beauty. It seemed to him the two “holy lights” high above the dark angle of the inclosure were watching him sternly and sadly. Oh! unholy earth, he thought; oh! sad earth! And, perhaps, unholy prudence, sad prudence—earthly prudence!
Upon reaching the corner, the two wayfarers turned to the left, leaving the deep roar of the Anio behind them. They passed the great gate of the monastery, and having turned the other corner of the inclosure, and traversed the long, dark passage which runs beneath the library, reached a low door. Don Clemente rang the bell. They would be obliged to wait some time, for at nine o’clock, or shortly after, all the keys of the monastery were taken to the Abbot.