“Questi santi sono curiosi” (A. Manzoni, “The Betrothed”, chapter XXV)
It often happens, thanks to the subtle irony of Manzoni that is never sufficiently investigated and appreciated, that while reading “The Betrothed” we come across the most sarcastic phrases uttered by the least sympathetic characters. It would be enough to search the web for one of those sites that anthologize aphorisms or famous phrases in the works of this or that author, and then check in the text of the novel who, and in what circumstance, pronounces that phrase that at first seemed so beautiful or reprehensible when taken out of context. We would achieve two equally fruitful effects: stop quoting Manzoni in vain, and understand his real intention, which was not apologetic, didactic, or moralizing.
This is why, today, on the occasion of the All Saints’ Day holiday, rather than 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 silver alive in them”, and if they have some noble goal to pursue, they “drag the whole human race into it if they could”. 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 tamed, is kind – as Saint Paul writes in his Letter to the Corinthians – but is also enterprising, imaginative, and stubborn. It is a pity that these expressions come from the mouth of the chaplain who witnesses the meeting between the Unnamed and Cardinal Federigo, and from that of Don Abbondio, the perfect antithesis of sanctity in the novel. One might say that the Nun of Monza or the Unnamed are worse, but to them, great in evil, Manzoni grants the possibility of conversion to become great in good (yes, even Gertrude converts, for those who do not know). This sanctity is not granted to the mediocre in evil like Don Rodrigo, nothing more than a beast of a man, or to the lukewarm in good like Don Abbondio.
Moreover, 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 they can coexist with sanctity… And what if it were all appearance? Who can know all the intentions 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 all just appearance? What if there were some ulterior motive behind their behavior?
Saints are annoying. I don’t mean those praised by the Church, I mean curious, stubborn, enterprising people that we encounter every day on our path. They provoke envy in some, amazement 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 pointed at Lucia as a “pierced Madonna” and hinted between the lines that all her blushes, her desire to be perfect and modest, actually hid some mess she had gotten into with Renzo and that she now 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 down their enthusiasm.
And I wonder where the saints live today. Whether they are still to be found among the fumes of incense and under the weight of sacred vestments. Whether they are instead to be recognized in the streets of everyday life, on the boats that save lives at sea, in the volunteers who help the homeless, in those who open their homes to give shelter to the poor. These are exactly the actions of the Unnamed 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 little sanctity (it is cousin Carlo who is proclaimed a saint, not Federigo Borromeo), he himself becomes an instrument of Providence, courageous in doing good as much as he was resolute in evil before. There is no sinner who cannot become a saint if only they let themselves be infected by goodness. Except for the lukewarm, like Don Abbondio. “I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were either 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 third book of the Apocalypse, that is, the word of God.
