Immediately after Olimpia’s disclosure, the priest was like a new man. His uncertainties and worries, and self-dissatisfaction; the ignoble wrestling with his own imagination; the relentless battle against his own senses; the fear that he had already fallen and committed some mortal sin, through his weaknesses – all these things had bowed him down physically and prostrated him mentally. Now he had suddenly straightened up and taken heart; he had suddenly assumed an air of gladness, almost of boldness.
‘I shall die,’ he kept repeating, ‘I shall die on the altar. I shall quit this vile cloak of flesh. I shall become pure spirit. There’ll be no more conflict, no more remorse, but eternal peace.’
Yet during the day he began to suffer some scruples. Could he drink the wine regardless? Was he not obliged to submit himself to these earthly woes for love of his neighbour? Was the secrecy of the confessional to override the priest’s own safety, when saving himself could not possibly give rise to suspicion against anyone? He searched through the Synod’s rulings and the Roman Ritual; he checked in the Tractatus de Sacramento Poenitentiae; he consulted the writings of Cardinal de Lugo, and Coninck’s Confessione; he examined the works of St Thomas. Nowhere were any exceptions allowed to the inviolability of confessional secrecy. In fact, to his utmost consolation, the priest came upon a case identical to his own, that of Blessed Father del Bufalo; having been told that the eucharist wine was poisoned, the founder of the Missionaries of the Precious Blood went ahead just the same and celebrated mass, using the wine from the cruet, and died. In short, whatever the cost, the priest always had to ignore what he heard in the confessional, even at his own expense. Having unequivocally resolved this fundamental issue, Don Giuseppe gave effusive and most warm-hearted thanks to Christ, at his prayer-stool, before retiring to bed and falling into a long and peaceful sleep after such turmoil.
Menico had to shake his frail body several times before the priest managed to wake up properly.
‘Much good may it do you, Father!’ said the cantankerous old man. ‘It’s time to get up. Can’t you hear the bells ringing for mass?’
‘I’m coming, my good Menico, I’m coming.’
And within twenty minutes he was already robed in the sacristy, and blissfully reciting the Veni Creator. He entered the church as though entering Paradise. His eyes were joyful. He had never walked so majestically. It was as if he were climbing the steps of God’s throne in radiant joy. ‘Introibo ad altare … Introibo ad altare …’ But there was no sign of Menico, who was supposed to be doing the responses. At last he emerged from the little doorway of the sacristy, carrying the two glass vessels on the small tray, and he came hurrying up to the altar. But a figure dressed in black, with a veil over her face, rose as he came past her, and in an apparent rush to leave the church she collided with the little old man, causing the tray and cruets to fall to the ground. There was a great crash, and the vessels broke into a hundred pieces. The water and wine formed two little puddles.
It is impossible to describe the ensuing commotion. Who could it have been? Was it … ? A woman. She was gone. Had she done it deliberately? And that fool Menico! Now what would happen? Mass could not be celebrated any more. The church would have to be reconsecrated. It was a warning from heaven.
‘Go and fetch the cruets from St Roch’s shrine.’
This advice was immediately followed, and a quarter of an hour later the service could resume. After mass came the procession, with the appropriate banners, and the children dressed as angels, as usual, and the customary green and red cloaks, and the usual grumbling. The painted wooden statue of St Roch, with his broad-brimmed hat, pilgrim’s shells, and his hand pointing to the sores on his leg, was returned to its niche in the shrine, and the ceremony came to an end. The priest desperately needed to be alone.
When he entered the presbytery he saw two people standing by the window in the hall, who must have been waiting for him. They were the Mayor and a clergyman, who had just arrived from Trento. He invited them to sit down, but with a grieved and humble demeanour the clergyman handed the parish priest a large letter stamped with the Bishop’s seal. The priest read the first lines, and turned pale. He asked if he might withdraw to his room for a moment. He leaned back against the wall and continued to read, then fell to his knees before the bleeding Christ, and prayed for a few minutes.
The letter suspended the priest from his parish duties, and ordered him to hand over the church, together with all its sacred objects, and the presbytery, with everything that was not his personal property, to the clergyman who brought the letter – and did so (should he think of applying to the civil authorities) by agreement with the Mayor. As for the reasons for such a severe sentence, the letter had little to say. It cited this maxim: ‘Parochus debet, in quantum potest, cum debita prudentia scandala de medio tollere.’ Now, not only had the priest lacked prudence in seeking to root out scandal, he had given rise to further scandal of the most serious nature, refusing to cease his questionable – or, to say the least, his rash and morally imprudent – behaviour. Having lost all authority in the parish, he was to surrender his office to others. Signed: Giovanni, Bishop of Trento.
The order was final. He had to obey. He called Menico, asking him to parcel up his small amount of linen, his cassock, a pair of shoes, three or four theological tomes – nothing else. He put in his pocket the daguerrotype portraits of his late mother and father, and went out into the hall, saying, ‘I’m ready. Let’s begin in the sacristy, if you like.’
The clergyman was not expecting anything to happen so fast; Don Giuseppe should take his time; there was no hurry; in fact, he wanted to say how dismayed he was; he wished it to be known that he would not have accepted but for his oath of obedience. Don Giuseppe insisted, and they began to make an inventory of each and every object. This task should not have taken long, the church being so poor and the cupboard in the sacristy so small, but the new curate wanted to examine everything closely, and he remarked in an unctuous voice, in honied tones, ‘O God, how dirty! Blessed Virgin Mary, how tatty! There’s a piece missing! There’s an oil stain on it! How beggarly! What a disgrace!’
There was a moment when Don Giuseppe faced the suave cleric and, impatience making his speech rapid and broken, he said, ‘Father, the parish is extremely poor! I’ve given the church all of the little that I had, right down to the very last coin. I did the best I could. Forgive me.’
The other became even more saccharine and obdurate. He named the objects in Latin and meticulously examined them one by one. ‘Purificatorium lineum … it’s all ragged! Mappa triplex ex lino vel cannabe confecta … there are two holes in it – no, three, four! Calix et patena … made of brass, and how dented they are! Missale cum pulvillo … there’s not a page without a corner missing! Paramenta albi, rubri, viridis, violacei et nigri coloris … oh, what faded colours, you can’t tell one from another any more! Bursa, velum, manutergium … these aren’t worth keeping! Ampullae vitreae … There were no cruets. And at this point the new curate’s face took an expression that was a mixture of outrage, disgust and pity, with his head tilted to the left and his hands joined in front of his mouth.
In the presbytery Don Giuseppe said, ‘I’m leaving behind everything except, with your permission, this bundle.’ And he showed them what was inside. He went on quickly, as if the words burnt his lips, ‘Mr Mayor, please accept this hunting rifle in memory of me. I ask you, Father, at your discretion to distribute a little money to the poor of the parish, in payment for this furniture, all these things here – which are my property that I’m leaving behind.’
Having carefully examined every corner of the room, the clergyman nodded his head, solemn and aloof.
Don Giuseppe went on in a weak voice, choked with sorrow: ‘Then, if you would do me a favour, Father: convey a last farewell to my … forgive me, to your good parishioners, from a poor pastor without a flock. I’ve loved them so much, and must leave them, after ten years, without saying goodbye, without a single
word of affection. It breaks my heart to go away, and I have only a few days left to live, but in those few days I shall pray for them as a father prays for his beloved children.’ Tears welled up in the poor man’s eyes.
From the road leading straight out of the village, the priest quickly set off downhill, accompanied by Menico, but after a hundred yards or so he stopped, as though he had forgotten something of vital importance. He stood there for a moment, thinking. Then steeling himself, he went back and knocked at the door of the presbytery.
When the new curate saw him standing before him again, he could not repress a gesture of annoyance. And an embarrassed, timorous Don Giuseppe whispered, ‘Forgive me, Father. A minute only: have pity on a poor priest whom you will never see again. Be generous – please, don’t be angry. There’s a gift I would ask of you, the greatest gift I could possibly receive in this world.’
Impatience, scorn and avarice showed in the other man’s eyes, but he had that perpetual smile on his lips.
Still standing at the door, Don Giuseppe went on timidly, humbly, as though begging for charity, ‘In the bedroom there’s a Christ on the Cross. It’s my only comfort, and I’ve always prayed to it, and it has always helped me and saved me from the temptations of the flesh. Without that Christ, I could not live or die in peace. Father, have pity on me, give me that Christ.’
The new curate went over to the prayer-stool and examined the wooden figure. It was crudely carved and ineptly painted, with red drops of blood spurting from the brow crowned with thorns, and gushing from the gaping wound in its side. The body’s limbs were all twisted, and the long, thin, white face inspired terror and disgust. The worthy cleric took the Christ down from the wall and handed it to Don Giuseppe, saying, ‘I prefer a more kindly, attractive image of the Son of God. Religion needn’t serve to terrorize children and the wicked. Gentle souls, like mine, yearn for gentleness. Take it, and God be with you.’
Menico was waiting outside the village, with the bundle in his hand. He wanted to carry the crucifix as well, but Don Giuseppe would not let him. he had wrapped it in a piece of green canvas, but he held it carefully under his arm, as though it were made of glass. It was actually made of such worm-eaten bits of wood, so badly stuck together, that had it fallen on the ground it would certainly not have remained in one piece.
Master and servant kept looking at each other, without uttering a syllable. It was getting dark and the road was deserted. The priest felt a weakness of the kind that follows high fevers, and his forehead was bathed in sweat. He sat down on a rock, practically on the ground, burying his face in the palms of his hands, with his elbows on his knees, and wept. Then looking up at Menico, he said, ‘And I’m blameless, Menico. As far as I know, I’ve done nothing wrong. I resisted the Devil, I defeated him. I loved my parishioners.’ And he covered his face with his hands again, weeping.
Menico plucked up courage and finally asked a question he had been wanting to ask for some time. ‘Father, where do you intend to go?’
‘To Cogo, this evening.’
‘And after that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So what next?’
‘I put my trust in Providence.’
‘Providence is all very well, but, forgive me, Father, have you any money in your pocket?’
‘No.’
‘Of course, you couldn’t have any. You gave it all to me to do the shopping. But if I didn’t remember …’ and he handed the priest an old purse, adding, ‘Here’s one hundred lire.’
‘A hundred lire, how can that be? I can’t possibly have given you that much.’
‘You did, Father.’
‘Tell the truth.’
‘Well, there’s some of my saving as well.’
‘Your entire savings – tell the truth, now. And you’re left with nothing.’
‘My needs are few.’
‘You’ve a heart of gold. But I don’t want all this. I’ll take twenty lire.’
‘Sixty, at least.’
‘No, twenty.’
‘All right, here’s twenty.’ Menico was lying; he had left Don Giuseppe with sixty.
‘Now, you go home, Menico, it’s nearly dark. It looks as if there’s a storm brewing. Give me the bundle and return to the village.’
The old fellow was not at all willing. He meant to go down at least as far as Cogo and spend the night there. The sky would have cleared by the following day. But in fact Menico was already dead tired; he was limping and tripping over every stone on the road, so he simply had to stop. Then the priest kissed the weeping old man on the forehead, and said goodbye.
Not even the hunting dog that had come following after his master, leaping up around him, wanted to turn back. And as he patted the dog, Don Giuseppe conscientiously considered whether he might now draw a little comfort from the faithful animal’s lively affection, but feeling ashamed of his profane desire, he inwardly ruled against it and murmured, ‘For me, the world should no longer offer any consolation.’
Having been tied to a string and led away by Menico, who walked at a snail’s pace, the dog could only follow at the old man’s heels, with its tail between its legs. Unsettled and its suspicions aroused, the beast gave long drawn-out, heartrending howls that carried through the mountain silence like voices of sad omen.
When the priest was unable to see him any more, Menico collapsed on to the grass, muttering, ‘That’s fooled him. He thinks I’m going back to the village. In fact I’m going to rest a while, then go down to Cogo to join him, and just let anyone try to keep me from him!’ He kept repeating every now and then, ‘What a business! What a terrible business!’
VI
The priest was left on his own.
There was a bend in the path just at that point, where it came winding into another narrow valley, from which the alpine village was no longer visible. Don Giuseppe turned round to gaze at his church, and his mountain, and to rest his eyes once more on the icy peaks, which stood out white against the clouds in the monotonous grey twilight. The poor man did not cough; he felt no fire in his chest; he did not have the feverishness and hectic flushes that he suffered almost continually. And he thanked heaven for granting him an hour’s good health on the day when everything else that he owned on this earth had been taken from him. Only he felt a weariness in his every limb that was not without a certain pleasantness and lulled his mind into a state of vague and almost dreamy drunkenness.
As he passed through the village of Ledizzo, he looked up at the windows of the house where Signora Carlina lived. She was looking out into the street, waiting for the doctor, and saw her good, kind Don Giuseppe walking slowly in the last glimmerings of twilight. She greeted him and cheerfully invited him to come up. This lovely creature’s pure voice seemed to the unhappy priest to come from the heavenly heights.
‘It’s the good angel,’ he murmured, and quick as lightning this thought brought to mind the wicked angel, the Devil in its terrible beauty. Then, drawing back the green cloth from the bleeding face of the Christ held under his arm, he kissed the wooden statue as though imploring his own salvation.
But Signora Carlina insisted. ‘Come up, Father, do. I’ve so many things to tell you.’
The priest did not reply, and continued on his way. But twenty yards on, as he came to the little chapel where he had stopped two days earlier, now feeling faint and dizzy, and his legs unable to support him, he went inside. In the dim, flickering light the crude image of the saint once again appeared to him to be the diabolical likeness of Olimpia.
Half an hour went by. Signora Carlina, who had seen the priest enter the chapel, from which a pale glow illuminated a brief stretch of the path, not seeing him come out, was troubled, and beginning to suspect that something was wrong she went down there with her maid to see for herself.
Don Giuseppe lay collapsed in a corner, giving no sign of life: with his arms hanging loosely and his head tilted back, with unseeing eyes and the slack mouth of a dead man. Help was s
ummoned, and the poor priest’s body was lifted up, gently carried to the doctor’s house and laid on the bed in Signora Carlina’s room. She had sent in great haste for her husband, wherever he might be at that time of day, at the Baroness’s house or one of the drinking taverns. Holding her breath, with light fingers she loosened the priest’s collar, unbuttoned his undershirt and placed her left hand on his naked chest. She thought she felt his heart beating. Then throwing herself down on her knees, she said several times over, ‘My good, kind Don Giuseppe! Oh, God of mercy, spare my good, kind Don Giuseppe!’
Then she immediately began to feel again whether his heart really was beating.
The priest gave a sigh so light it would not have made a candle-flame flicker. But the young woman noticed it and a lovely smile of hope sprang to her lips. She lowered her cheek to the invalid’s pale lips to check whether a little breath was actually escaping from them.
Indeed, he was breathing. He opened his eyes, looking dazed, but his limbs remained stiff. The first thing he asked for, which Signora Carlina understood more from the movement of his lips than from the sound of his words, was this: ‘My Christ, my crucifix.’
It had actually been found, carefully laid on his bundle at the shrine, and been brought to the bedroom. Reaching up on tiptoe, Signora Carlina placed the foot of the cross on the chest of drawers and rested the Christ against the wall, right opposite the bed, so the priest could see it without moving his head. The cross stood out black against the pale brightness of the wall, set between two coloured lithographs in gold filigree frames, one of which showed Paul and Virginie at the ford, the other picturing the young girl’s death and her despairing lover.
The bleeding, gimcrack Christ looked more terrible than ever there in that neat and pretty room, which was kept spotlessly clean, without a speck of dust: with flower-patterned curtains, freshly starched and laundered; white bed linen, with raised embroidery and lace trim, worked by the skilful fingers of the lady of the house; needle-point in woollen yarns of every colour on the armchairs and seats; and tassels and bows and braiding that she had made while innocently dreaming of a modest and virtuous paradise, into which had strayed a little while ago the vague wish that her Amilcare were like her good, kind Don Giuseppe.
Senso (And Other Stories) Page 15