“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 compile aphorisms or famous quotes from works of literature, and then check in the novel who, and in what circumstances, pronounces that phrase which at first, taken out of context, seemed so beautiful or reprehensible to us. We would achieve two equally fruitful effects: stop quoting Manzoni randomly, and understand his real intent, which was not apologetic, didactic, or moralizing.
That is why, today, on the occasion of All Saints’ Day, rather than the sacred hymn “Ognissanti”, I prefer to be provoked by certain passages from The Betrothed, where it is said that “all saints are stubborn”, and that “saints have living silver inside them”, and if they have some noble purpose to pursue, “they involve the whole human race, 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, it is kind – as Saint Paul writes in the Letter to the Corinthians – but it is also enterprising, imaginative, stubborn. It’s a shame that these expressions come from the mouth of the chaplain who witnesses the encounter 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 don’t know). Mediocre evildoers like Don Rodrigo, no more than a big shot from the countryside, or lukewarm do-gooders like Don Abbondio, are not granted this sanctity.
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, it seems to me that they can coexist with sanctity… And what if it were all just appearance? Who can know all the purposes 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 like this?
Saints are bothersome. I’m not talking about those praised by the Church, I’m talking about curious, stubborn, enterprising people we meet every day on our way. They provoke envy in some, astonishment in many, suspicion in almost everyone, especially in a certain type of churchmen. Don Abbondio, annoyed by the fervor of Cardinal Federigo, is the same one who referred to Lucia as “a pierced little Madonna” and subtly hinted between the lines that all her blushes, her desire to be perfect and modest, actually hid some trouble she had gotten into with her Renzo and that now she had to quickly fix with marriage. This is what quiet people think of saints: they don’t 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. If they are still to be found among the fumes of incense and under the weight of sacred vestments. Or if they are instead to be recognized on the everyday streets, on the boats that save lives at sea, in the volunteers who help the homeless, in those who open their homes to provide hospitality 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 small 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 before in doing evil. 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, that you are neither cold nor hot. Oh, that you were either cold or hot! So then, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will vomit you out of My mouth.” This is not Manzoni’s word, but the third book of the Apocalypse, in other words, the word of God.
