place was made for the machine in the stable, and then we followed the
_padrone_ or _Abate_--for this was his real title--to the door where J.
had rung in vain, and which he opened with his key. Within it was so
dark that we groped our way through a hall and a small cloister. Then we
came to a flight of steps, where at the bidding of the _Abate_, as if to
reassure us that we were not being led to secret cells or
torture-chambers, the man carrying our bags struck a solitary match. By
this feeble light we walked up the broad stone stairs and through many
passage-ways, not a sound breaking the stillness but our foot-falls and
their loud echoes, to a door where the _Abate_ left us, and at the same
time the match burnt out. But the next minute he reappeared with a
lighted taper, and at the end of the hall opened another door, lit a
lamp on a table within, and showed us four rooms, which he said were at
our disposal. The beds were not made, but they would be attended to
immediately. He had now to say Office, but at nine supper would be
served. Here was a very comfortable solution to the mystery into which
the massive gateway seemed to lead. The Valley of the Shadow of Death
had turned out to be a Delectable Land!
It was still more comfortable later, when, his Office said, the _Abate_
came back and sat and talked with us. Now he could examine us by a
better light I think he concluded we were not dangerous characters,
probably only harmless lunatics. However that may be, after half an
hour, when the supper-bell rang and we started off for the refectory,
again by the light of his taper, we were the best of friends. The long
corridor, thus dimly seen, seemed interminable. We went down one
stairway to find the door locked against us, then up and down another.
Here the light went out, leaving us in a darkness like unto that of
Egypt. The _Abate_ laughed as if it were the best of jokes. He took J.'s
hand and J. took mine, and thus like three children we went laughing
down the stairway and along more passages, and at last into a long
refectory, at the farther end of which was a lamp, while a door to one
side of that by which we entered opened, and a second monk in white
robes, holding a lighted taper, came in, and when he saw us made a low
bow. As there were no other visitors, we were to eat with him and his
brother monk, the _Abate_ said; and then he gave me the head of the
table, asking me if I were willing to be the Lady Abbess.
If we had been two prodigals he could not have been kinder than he was
now he had given us shelter. If we had been starving like the hero of
the parable, he could not have been more anxious to set before us a
feast of plenty. Nor would any fatted calf have been more to our taste
than the substantial supper prepared for us. We must eat, he said; we
needed it. He had seen us coming up the hill as he talked with a peasant
by the roadside; but _monsieur_ was push-pushing the velocipede and
looking at nothing else, and _madame_ was panting and swinging her arms,
staring straight in front of her, and before he had time, we had passed.
We must drink too; the wine was good for us. We must not mix water with
it; it was Christian, why then should it be baptized? The white-robed
brother spoke little, but he never allowed J.'s plate to remain empty.
When the meat was brought in we were joined by Pirro, a good-sized dog
with no tail to speak of, and Lupo, an unusually large cat, and his
numerous family, who all had to be fed at intervals. But even while
Pirro jumped nimbly into the air after pieces of bread thrown to him,
and Lupo scratched, and his progeny made mournful appeals to be
remembered, and we talked, I looked every now and then down the long
narrow table to where it was lost in deep shadow. The cloth was laid its
entire length, as if in readiness for the banished brothers whenever
they might return. I should not have been surprised then to see the door
open to admit a procession of white-robed monks, all with tapers in
their hands.
The _Abate_ must have realized that to a stranger there was something
uncanny in his dark, silent, deserted monastery, and his last word as he
bade us good-night was, that we were to fear nothing, and sleep in
peace.
_To_
_THE ABATE DI NEGRO,_
_Of Monte Oliveto Maggiore,_
_We would say a Word of Thanks for the Golden Days
passed in his House Beautiful,
and for
The Great Kindnesses shown us in our farther
Journeying._
MONTE OLIVETO.
"_But, oh, what a favor is this to
me, that yet I am admitted entrance
here!_"
"_But they are to me golden hours
in which such things happen to me._"
The days we spent at Monte Oliveto were golden days. For we not only
slept there one, but several nights, and the _Abate_ declared we could
remain as long as we might care to. Nothing could be more melancholy and
wild than the country into which we had come. It is the most desolate
part of all that strange desolation which lies to the southeast of
Siena. The mountain on which the monastery is built is surrounded on
every side but one by deep, abrupt ravines. Behind it rise higher
mountains, bare and bleak and gray, like gigantic ash-piles, and on the
very highest peak is the wretched little village of Chiusure. The other
hills around are lower, and from the road by the convent gateway one can
see Siena, pale and blue on the horizon, and southward, over the barren
hill-tops, Monte Amiata. But Monte Oliveto, with its gardens and
orchards and vineyards, is a green place in the midst of the barrenness.
The mountain-sides are terraced, and olives and vines grow almost to the
bottom of the ravine. It was said in old times that the Bishop of Arezzo
was commanded in a vision to call the monastery after the Mount in
Jerusalem. Now-a-days sceptics say the trees on the terraces explain the
name, forgetting that in its beginning this hill was as bare as the
others. Why cannot it be believed, for the legend's sake, that the
olives were planted afterwards because of the name?
The first morning, the _Abate_ took us to see the frescos representing
the life of Saint Benedict, painted on the walls of the large cloister.
I will be honest, and confess that they disappointed us. I doubt whether
the artists were very proud of them. Luca Signorelli, before he had
finished the first side of the cloister, gave up the work, as it is not
likely he would have done had he cared much for it. Sodoma, when he took
his place, was at first so careless that the then abbot took him to
task, but the artist calmly told him more could not be expected for the
price that was paid him. Certainly with neither were these frescos a
labor of love, and this one feels at once. One wonders if this could
have been the same Sodoma who painted the Saint Sebastian in Florence,
and yet there is more charm in his pictures than in those of Signorelli.
But what we cared for most were his portraits of himself, with heavy
hair hanging about his face, and wearing the cloak the Milanese
gentleman, turned monk, had given him, and of his wife and child; and
the pictures of the raven and the other pets he brought with him to the
monastery, to the wonder of the good monks. It is a pity every one
cannot look at these frescos with such loving, reverential eyes as the
_Abate_. He had shown them probably to hundreds of visitors; he had seen
them almost every day for the many years he had been at Monte Oliveto;
but his pleasure in them was as fresh as if it dated but from yesterday.
He told the story of each in turn,--of how in this one the great Saint
Benedict had set the devil to flight, and how in that he had by a
miracle recalled an erring brother; and once he pointed to a palm-tree
in a background. Sodoma, he said, had seen and admired a palm in the
garden of the monastery, and so, after his realistic fashion, had
painted it in just as he had his pets. That very tree was in the garden
still; he would show it to us if we liked.
[Illustration: MONTE OLIVETO.
_Page 84._]
There never was such another garden! It is close to the large brick
house or palace by the gateway, where in old times lay visitors were
lodged, and beyond which no woman was ever allowed to pass. It is small,
but in it the monks only raised the rarest trees and plants. Here grew
the precious herbs out of which in the pharmacy, whose windows overlook
the quiet green enclosure, they prepared the healing draughts for which
people came from far and near. The pharmacy is closed now. There is dust
in the corners and on the quaint old chairs. Cobwebs hang from the
ceiling. But brass scales are still on the heavy wooden counter, and
pestle and mortar behind it, and glass retorts of strange shapes in the
corners and above the doors. Majolica jars all marked with the three
mountains, the cross, and the olive-branch,--the _stemma_ of the
monastic order,--are ranged on the brown shelves, many of the large ones
carefully sealed, while from the smaller come forth strange odors of
myrrh and incense and rare ointments. As in the refectory, everything
here is in order for the monks when they return. But they will find more
change in the garden below. The rare plants, the ebony and the hyssop,
the cactuses and the palm (which made us think less of Sodoma's frescos
than we had before), the pomegranates and the artichokes, are all there.
But weeds grow in the paths, and by the old gray well, and in among the
herbs; roses have run riot in the centre of the garden and turned it
into a wild tangled growth. To us it seemed the loveliest spot in Monte
Oliveto. The hours spent in it were like a beautiful idyl of Theocritus
or Shelley. The sun shone and the air was filled with sweet spicy
scents. To one side was the gray mountain, to the other dense cypresses,
and above a blue, cloudless sky. The roses were still in bloom, and as
we lingered there, the _Abate_ went from bush to bush and picked for me
a large bunch of fragrant buds. I hope if the monks ever do come back
that, while they throw open the windows of the pharmacy and let the
light in again upon the majolica and the dark woodwork, they will leave
the gates of the garden locked. It is fairer in its confusion than it
ever could be with weeded paths and well-clipped bushes.
The _Abate_ took us everywhere,--through the empty guest-chambers of the
palace to the tower, now a home for pigeons, from the top of which one
has a wide view of the country, which with its squares of olives and its
gray hills and fields marked by deep furrows, as if by boundary lines,
looks like a large map or geological chart,--through the monastery, with
its three hundred rooms with now but three monks to occupy them; its
cloisters, for there are two besides the large frescoed one; its
_loggie_, where geraniums and other green plants were growing; its great
refectory, beyond the door of which fowl or flesh meat never passed, and
which is now used no longer; and its library, at the very top of the
house, where rows of white vellum volumes are ready for the students who
so seldom come. Then he led us to the church, where there are more
altars than monks to pray before them, and a wonderful choir with inlaid
stalls; and in and out of little chapels, one of which contains the
grotto where blessed Bernardo Tolomei, the founder of the order, lived
for many years after he came to the wilderness, while another was the
first church used by the brotherhood, and the Virgin with angels playing
to her on harps and mandolins, above the altar, was painted long before
Signorelli and Sodoma began their work. Then there was the lemon-grove
to be seen, where the _Abate_ filled our pockets with the ripe fruit
which we were to keep, he said, in case we might be thirsty on the road
some day when there was no wine or water near by to drink. And after
that there was still to be visited the wine-press, with its deep shadows
and dark corners and long subterranean passage to the room below, where
men were filling small casks from large butts, and then carrying them
off on their shoulders to be weighed and stored above. We had to taste
the wine, and I think it, together with the sunshine and the flowers,
must have gone to our heads that morning and stayed there so long as we
were at Monte Oliveto, for everything about us seemed to belong less to
the actual world than to a dreamland full of wonder and beauty, and
sometimes of pathos.
It was the same in the afternoon, when the _Abate_ had gone about his
work,--for he is a busy man, like the centurion with many under
him,--and J. and I wandered alone over the gray hills up to Chiusure.
Life with its hardships must be real enough to the people of this little
village, in which seeds of pestilence sown hundreds of years ago still
bear the bitter fruit of wretchedness. It seems as if the brick walls
which could not keep out the plague have ever since successfully barred
the way to all prosperity, for generation after generation is born
within them but to live and die in poverty. We saw melancholy figures
there,--old hags of women, with thin white hair and bent almost double
under heavy bundles of wood, toiling up steep stony streets with bare
feet, and others crouching in the gloom opposite open doorways. Even the
little priest, who, in his knee-breeches and long frock-coat and braided
smoking-cap with tassels dangling in his eyes, was humorous enough to
look at, was pathetic in his way. For after he had shown us his church
with its decorations, poor as the people who worship in it, and offered
us a glass of wine in his own parlor, he spread on the table before us
some broken pieces of glass easily put together, on which a picture was
painted. Was it of value? he asked, so eagerly that he told without
further words the story of wants but ill supplied. He was willing to
sell it, but he did not know what it was worth. Could we tell him? No,
we could not, we said, for we really knew nothing about it, though we
feared the hopes he had set upon it would never be realized. And then
sadly he gathered together the pieces and put them away again in their
newspaper wrapping.
It was more cheerful outside the gateway. There, in the late afternoon,
the gray olives by the way were more clearly defined against the sky,
and the gray ravines below more indistinct. Beyond, the hills, now all
purple and soft, rolled away to the horizon and to the brilliant red sky
above. One or two lights were lit in distant farm-houses, and once we
heard a far-off bell. Before us the white road led by one green hill on
whose top was a circle of cypresses, and in its centre a black cross, as
in so many old pictures.
But the strangest part of this dream-life was the friendship that sprung
up between us and the monks. I should not have been more surprised if
Saint Benedict and Blessed Bernardo had come back to earth to make
friends with us. It was not only that the _Abate_ acted as our guide
through the monastery,--this he does for every visitor who comes, since
the Government took possession of it and turned it into a public
art-gallery and _pension_ for artists,--but he came to our room early in
the morning to drink his coffee with us, and in the evening, after he
had said his Office, for a little talk. And when we had finished our
supper we sat together long over our wine, talking now in French, now in
English, now in Italian, and occasionally understanding each other. Like
all good fellows, we too had our jokes. But the _Abate's_ favorite was
to tell how he had seen us coming up the mountain, _monsieur_
push-pushing the velocipede and _madame_ puff-puffing behind him. Even
Dom Giuseppe, the other monk,--the third was away,--relaxed from the
dignity with which he had first met us, and took part in the talk and
the laughter. Unreal as seemed these late suppers in the long refectory
in the dim light, with Pirro forever jumping after choice morsels, while
Lupo and his family growled with rage and envy from under the table, we
strayed even farther into Wonderland the second day after our arrival,
when both monks went out for a ride on the tricycle along the mulberry
walk and by Blessed Bernardo's grotto.
The last day of our stay a number of visitors arrived,--a priest from
Perugia, two nuns, and two English ladies. They were not expected, and
dinner had to be prepared for them. The _Abate_ is never pleased when
guests come without giving him warning. When we met him in the refectory
a little after twelve, we could see his patience had been tried. We must
pardon him for being late, he said, but he had had to find something to
eat for all these people. Were they to dine with us? we asked. No,
indeed, was his answer; they were not members of the community. This
confirmed our doubts as to whether we might not be monks without knowing
it; for the first morning the _Abate_ had given us a key of the great
front door by which we could let ourselves in at all hours, without any
ringing of bells or calling of porters; so that we felt as if we
belonged to the convent. These visitors were the thorns in his present
life, the _Abate_ continued, and we were his roses. Then he brought out
a bottle of the _vino santo_ which he makes himself and prizes so highly
that he never sells it as he does the other wines, and a plate of grapes
for which he had sent a great distance. And when dinner was over he bade
the servant put all that was left of grapes and wine away. They were for
the community, and not for common folk. He introduced us to the Perugian
priest, who might possibly, he said, be of use to us in Perugia. The
latter almost embraced J. in his protestations of good-will, and came
running back several times to press his hand, and say in a French of his
own invention that we must call often during our stay in his city.
THROUGH THE WILDERNESS TO
A GARDEN.
"_Now he bethought himself of
setting forward._"
"_Here, also, they had the city
itself in view, and they thought
they heard all the bells therein to
ring to welcome them thereto._"
We left the monastery the next morning. It took courage on our part; but
we knew it was best to go quickly. Every day we fell more under the
dreamy influence of the place and became less willing for action. We
must hasten from Monte Oliveto for the very reason which led Blessed
Bernardo to it,--to flee temptation. The _Abate_ was in our room by
half-past seven. Dom Giuseppe was in the church saying Mass, but had
sent his farewells. He himself had not yet said Mass, so he could not
drink his coffee with us, but he sat by while we had ours. We should not
reach San Quirico till noon, he feared, and we must have something in
our pockets to eat in the mean time; and he went to his room and came
back with two cakes. He brought besides two letters he had written
introducing us to monks at San Pietro in Perugia. Then he came
downstairs and out to the stable, though he was fasting, and the morning
was wet and cloudy and cold. We did not get on the tricycle at once. We
remembered the road too well. The _Abate_ walked by our side, now and
then patting J. on the back and calling him affectionately "Giuseppe,
Giuseppe;" and he kept with us until, at some little distance from the
gateway, we mounted the machine. After he had said good-by, he stood
quietly watching us. Then there came a turn in the road which hid him
from us, and when we saw him again he was walking on the footpath below
the cypresses, with two little boys who had come out with him. He was on
his way to take Dom Giuseppe's place at the altar. And then we went on
sadly, for we knew we should not come to another resting-place where
there was such perfect relief for pilgrims that are weary and faint in
the way.
As the road was difficult going up, so was it dangerous coming down, and
again we had to walk. To add to our discomfort, before long it began to
rain, and it was so cold we had to blow on our fingers to keep them
warm. During the night it had snowed on the far mountain-ranges. Beyond
Buonconvento, when we returned to the post-road we went fast enough; but
only for a while. There were more mountains to cross, up which J. could
not go very fast because of the burden, or knapsack, that was on his
back. Out of very shame I took my share in pushing and pulling the
tricycle. Once or twice we had long coasts; but in places the road was
sandy, and in descending wound as often as a small St. Gothard railway.
Coasting would have been too great a risk, especially as I never could
back-pedal going down hill, though on upgrades J. but too often
complained that, like Dante on the hillside, my firm foot ever was the
lower.
[Illustration: AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS.
_Page 96._]
The way still lay between and over hills of chalk, and we rode for miles
through monotonous barrenness. It rained at intervals, but at times the
sun almost broke through the clouds that followed it in long gray sweeps
from the white masses on the snow-capped mountains bounding the horizon.
To our right, Monte Amiata, bare and rugged, and with white top, was
always in sight; and once above it the clouds rolled away leaving a
broad stretch of greenish blue sky. There were many crosses by the
wayside, and they were different from any we had yet seen. On each, over
spear and sponge and crown of thorns, was a black cock, rudely carved to
look as if it crowed. Just before we came to San Quirico, and towards
noon, we saw at the foot of one of these crosses an old weary-looking
peasant, with head bowed as if he listened for the Angelus.
We were prepossessed against San Quirico before we reached it. Olives
with vines hanging from them in defiance of Virgil, brown fields, and
red and yellow trees, could not reconcile us to the long climb up the
mountain. It was worth our trouble, however, if only to see the
cathedral. We left the tricycle at the _trattoria_, and at our leisure
looked at the portal and its pillars, with quaintly carved capitals of
animals and birds, and at those others, joined together with a
Celtic-like twist and resting on leopards, and then at the two
sea-monsters above. And while we wondered at the grotesque gargoyles on
the walls, and the two figures for columns, and the lions on the south
doorway, two _carabinieri_ from a neighboring window examined us as if
we were equal curiosities. This fine building is an incongruity in San
Quirico, which--for our first impressions proved right--is at best but a
poor place. We were cheated in it as we had never been before. When we
went back to the _trattoria_ four men were eating their dinner inside
the fireplace in the kitchen. But we were ushered into what I suppose
was the best room. It was dining-room and bed-chamber combined. On one
side was a long table, on the other the bed. The dressing-table served
as buffet, and the _padrona_ brought from its drawers the cheese and
apples for our dessert. In the garden below--for we were in the second
story--weeds like corn grew so tall that they shaded the window. What
happened in that room, and the difference that arose between the
_padrona_ and ourselves, are facts too unpleasant to recall. But I am
sure the next foreigners who went to San Quirico heard woful tales of
the evil doings of the two _Inglesi_ who came on a velocipede.
After San Quirico there was the same barrenness, and only indifferent
roads over rolling country. Until within half a mile of Pienza, where
the hedges began again, not a tree grew by the roadside, and the only
signs of vegetation were the reeds in the little dark pools dotting the
gray fields. It was still bitterly cold, and my fingers tingled on the
handles. Once we passed a farm-house where a solitary woman watched a
herd of black swine, and once we met the diligence; that was all.
We rode into Pienza, though our way lay to one side of it. But we were
curious to see the cathedrals and palaces Pius II. built there in the
vain hope of turning his native village into an important town. Of all
the follies of proud popes, I think this was the greatest. As well might
he have hoped by his single effort to cover the _creta_, or chalk, with
roses, as to raise a prosperous city in its midst. We saw the great
brown buildings marked with the fine crescents of the Piccolomini and
the papal tiara and keys, as out of place in Pienza as the cathedral
seemed in San Quirico; we looked closer at the old stone well and its
beautiful wrought-iron work. J. made a sketch of a fine courtyard, and
then we were on the road again.