“Questi santi sono curiosi” (A. Manzoni, “The Betrothed”, Chapter XXV)
It often happens, thanks to the subtle irony of Manzoni, which is never sufficiently investigated and appreciated, that while reading The Betrothed we come across the most sarcastic phrases uttered by the least sympathetic characters. One could simply search the web for one of those sites that anthologize aphorisms or famous phrases from works such as this, and then check in the novel who, and in what circumstances, speaks that phrase which, when taken out of context, seemed so beautiful or reprehensible to us at first. We would achieve two equally fruitful effects: stop quoting Manzoni incorrectly and understand his real intent, which was not apologetic, didactic, or moralizing.
That is why, today, on the Feast of All Saints, instead of the sacred hymn Ognissanti, I prefer to be provoked by some passages from The Betrothed, where it is said that “all saints are stubborn”, and that “saints have living silver on them”, and if they have some noble purpose to pursue, they “involve, if they could, all of humanity”. Isn’t it true? Aren’t these beautiful epigraphs to seal some portraits of exemplary lives? To celebrate the activism of charity, which is never tired, never subdued, it is kind – as St. Paul writes in his Letter to the Corinthians – but it is also enterprising, imaginative, and stubborn. It’s a pity that these expressions come from the mouth of the chaplain who witnesses the meeting between the unnamed character and Cardinal Federigo, and from that of Don Abbondio, the perfect antithesis of sanctity in the novel. One could argue that the Nun of Monza or the unnamed character are worse, but Manzoni grants them the possibility of conversion to become great in goodness (yes, even Gertrude converts, for those who didn’t know). This sanctity is not granted to those mediocre in evil like Don Rodrigo, nothing more than a village brute, or to those lukewarm in goodness like Don Abbondio.
Furthermore, it is the parish priest who openly declares his reluctance: “A little bit of phlegm, a little bit of prudence, a little bit of charity, I think it can coexist with sanctity… And what if it were all just an appearance? Who can know all the ends of men?”, he says in Chapter XXV, insinuating the worst suspicion that the people foster when they see someone too great, too magnanimous, too committed: what if it were just appearance? What if they had some ulterior motive for behaving this way?
The saints are bothersome. I’m not talking about those praised by the Church, I’m talking about curious, stubborn, enterprising people that we encounter every day on our path. They provoke envy in some, astonishment in many, suspicion in almost everyone, especially in a certain type of clergy. Don Abbondio, annoyed by the fervor of Cardinal Federigo, is the same one who called Lucia “a pierced Madonna” and implied between the lines that all her blushes, her desire to be perfect and modest, actually hid some mess she had made with her Renzo and that now she had to quickly fix with marriage. This is what quiet people think of saints: they do not recognize them, and if they catch a glimpse of them, they try to cool their enthusiasm.
And I wonder where the saints live today. If they are still to be found among the fumes of incense and under the weight of sacred garments. If they are not instead to be recognized in the streets of everyday life, on the boats that save lives at sea, in volunteers who help the homeless, in those who open their homes to provide shelter to the poor. These are exactly the actions of the unnamed character in The Betrothed, the true saint of the novel. Inspired by Lucia’s courageous innocence, welcomed by Cardinal Federigo’s forgiveness, “infected” by their kind of small sanctity (it is cousin Carlo who is proclaimed a saint, not Federigo Borromeo), he becomes an instrument of Providence himself, courageous in doing good as much as he was resolute in doing evil before. There is no sinner who cannot become a saint, if only they let themselves be infected by goodness. Except for those who are lukewarm, like Don Abbondio. “I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were cold or hot! So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth.” This is not Manzoni’s word, but the book of Revelation, the word of God.
