The rich land of the Clitumnus is divided into meadows by transparent
watercourses, gliding with a glassy current over swaying reeds. Through
this we pass, and leave Bevagna to the right, and ascend one of those
long gradual roads which climb the hills where all the cities of the
Umbrians perch. The view expands, revealing Spello, Assisi, Perugia on
its mountain buttress, and the far reaches northward of the Tiber
valley. Then Trevi and Spoleto came into sight, and the severe
hill-country above Gubbio in part disclosed itself. Over Spoleto the
fierce witch-haunted heights of Norcia rose forbidding. This is the kind
of panorama that dilates the soul. It is so large, so dignified, so
beautiful in tranquil form. The opulent abundance of the plain contrasts
with the severity of mountain ranges desolately grand; and the name of
each of all those cities thrills the heart with memories.
The main object of a visit to Montefalco is to inspect its many
excellent frescoes; painted histories of S. Francis and S. Jerome, by
Benozzo Gozzoli; saints, angels, and Scripture episodes by the gentle
Tiberio d'Assisi. Full justice had been done to these, when a little
boy, seeing us lingering outside the church of S. Chiara, asked whether
we should not like to view the body of the saint. This privilege could
be purchased at the price of a small fee. It was only necessary to call
the guardian of her shrine at the high altar. Indolent, and in compliant
mood, with languid curiosity and half-an-hour to spare, we assented. A
handsome young man appeared, who conducted us with decent gravity into a
little darkened chamber behind the altar. There he lighted wax tapers,
opened sliding doors in what looked like a long coffin, and drew
curtains. Before us in the dim light there lay a woman covered with a
black nun's dress. Only her hands, and the exquisitely beautiful pale
contour of her face (forehead, nose, mouth, and chin, modelled in purest
outline, as though the injury of death had never touched her) were
visible. Her closed eyes seemed to sleep. She had the perfect peace of
Luini's S. Catherine borne by the angels to her grave on Sinai. I have
rarely seen anything which surprised and touched me more. The religious
earnestness of the young custode, the hushed adoration of the
country-folk who had silently assembled round us, intensified the
sympathy-inspiring beauty of the slumbering girl. Could Julia, daughter
of Claudius, have been fairer than this maiden, when the Lombard workmen
found her in her Latin tomb, and brought her to be worshipped on the
Capitol? S. Chiara's shrine was hung round with her relics; and among
these the heart extracted from her body was suspended. Upon it,
apparently wrought into the very substance of the mummied flesh, were
impressed a figure of the crucified Christ, the scourge, and the five
stigmata. The guardian's faith in this miraculous witness to her
sainthood, the gentle piety of the men and women who knelt before it,
checked all expressions of incredulity. We abandoned ourselves to the
genius of the place; forgot even to ask what Santa Chiara was sleeping
here; and withdrew, toned to a not unpleasing melancholy. The
world-famous Saint Clair, the spiritual sister of S. Francis, lies in
Assisi. I have often asked myself, Who, then, was this nun? What history
had she? And I think now of this girl as of a damsel of romance, a
Sleeping Beauty in the wood of time, secluded from intrusive elements of
fact, and folded in the love and faith of her own simple worshippers.
Among the hollows of Arcadia, how many rustic shrines in ancient days
held saints of Hellas, apocryphal, perhaps, like this, but hallowed by
tradition and enduring homage![C]