It happened at Rome in the early nineties. Leo XIII was just then at the
height of his fame and greatness. All true Catholics rejoiced at his
successes and triumphs, which in truth were sublime. And, even for those
who could not grasp the great political events, it was plain that the
power of the Church was again coming to the front. Any one at all could
see that new cloisters were going up everywhere and that throngs of
pilgrims were beginning to pour into Italy, as in olden times. In many,
many places one saw the old, dilapidated churches in process of
restoration, damaged mosaics being put in order, and the treasure-vaults
of the churches being filled with golden relic-boxes and jewelled
exhibits.
Right in the midst of this progressive period the Roman people were
alarmed by the news that the Pope had been taken ill. He was said to be
in a very precarious condition; it was even rumored that he was dying.
His condition was, too, in a great degree serious. The Pope's physicians
issued bulletins which inspired but little hope. It was maintained that
the Pope's great age--he was then eighty years old--made it seem almost
incredible that he could survive this attack.
Naturally, the Pope's illness caused great unrest. In all the churches
in Rome prayers were said for his recovery. The newspapers were filled
with communications regarding the progress of the illness. The Cardinals
were beginning to take steps and measures for the new Papal election.
Everywhere they bemoaned the approaching demise of the brilliant leader.
They feared that the good fortune which had followed the Church's
standard under Leo XIII might not be faithful to it under the leadership
of his successor. There were many who had hoped that this Pope would
succeed in winning back Rome and the Ecclesiastical States. Others,
again, had dreamed that he would bring back into the bosom of the Church
some of the large Protestant countries.
For each second that was passing, fear and anxiety grew apace. As night
came on, in many homes the inmates would not retire. The churches were
kept open until long past midnight, that the anxious ones might have an
opportunity to go in and pray.
Among these throngs of devotees there was certainly more than one poor
soul who cried out: "Dear Lord, take my life instead of his! Let him,
who has done so much for Thy glory, live, and extinguish instead my
life-flame, which burns to no one's use!"
But if the Angel of Death had taken one of these devotees at his word
and had suddenly stepped up to him, with sword raised, to exact the
fulfilment of his promise, one might wonder somewhat as to how he would
have behaved. No doubt he would have recalled instantly such a rash
proffer and begged for the grace of being allowed to live out all the
years of his allotted time.
At this time there lived an old woman in one of the dingy ramshackle
houses along the Tiber. She was one of those who have the kind of spirit
that thanks God every day for life. Every morning she used to sit at the
market-place and sell garden truck. And this was an occupation that was
very congenial to her. She thought nothing could be livelier than a
market of a morning. All tongues were wagging--all were harking their
commodities, and buyers crowded in front of the stalls, selected and
bargained, and many a good sally passed between buyer and seller.
Sometimes the old woman was successful in making a good deal and in
selling out her entire stock; but even if she couldn't sell so much as a
radish, she loved to be standing amongst flowers and green things in the
fresh morning air.
In the evening she had another and an even greater pleasure. Then her
son came home and visited with her. He was a priest, but he had been
assigned to a little church in one of the humble quarters. The poor
priests who served there had not much to live upon, and the mother
feared that her son was starving. But from this, also, she derived much
pleasure, for it gave her the opportunity of stuffing him full of
delicacies when he came to see her. He struggled against it, as he was
destined for a life of self-denial and strict discipline, but his mother
became so distressed when he said no that he always had to give in.
While he was eating she trotted around in the room and chattered about
all that she had seen in the morning during market hours. These were all
very worldly matters, and it would occur to her sometimes that her son
might be offended. Then she would break off in the middle of a sentence
and begin to talk of spiritual and solemn things, but the priest
couldn't help laughing. "No, no, mother Concenza!" he said, "continue in
your usual way. The saints know you already, and they know what you are
up to."
Then she, too, laughed and said: "You are quite right. It doesn't pay to
pretend before the good Lord."
When the Pope was taken ill, Signora Concenza must also have a share in
the general grief. Of her own accord it certainly never would have
occurred to her to feel troubled about his passing. But when her son
came home to her, she could neither persuade him to taste of a morsel of
food nor to give her a smile, although she was simply bubbling over with
stories and interpolations. Naturally she became alarmed and asked what
was wrong with him. "The Holy Father is ill," answered the son.
At first she could scarcely believe that this was the cause of his
downheartedness. Of course it was a sorrow; but she knew, to be sure,
that if a Pope died, immediately there would come another. She reminded
her son of the fact that they had also mourned the good Pio Nono. And,
you see, the one who succeeded him was a still greater Pope. Surely the
Cardinals would choose for them a ruler who was just as holy and wise as
this one.
The priest then began telling her about the Pope. He didn't bother to
initiate her into his system of government, but he told her little
stories of his childhood and young manhood. And from the days of his
prelacy there were also things to relate--as, for instance, how he had
at one time hunted down robbers in southern Italy, how he had made
himself beloved by the poor and needy during the years when he was a
bishop in Perugia.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she cried out: "Ah, if he were not so
old! If he might only be allowed to live many more years, since he is
such a great and holy man!"
"Ah, if only he were not so old!" sighed the son.
But Signora Concenza had already brushed the tears from her eyes. "You
really must bear this calmly," said she. "Remember that his years of
life are simply run out. It is impossible to prevent death from seizing
him."
The priest was a dreamer. He loved the Church and had dreamed that the
great Pope would lead her on to important and decisive victories. "I
would give my life if I could purchase new life for him!" said he.
"What are you saying?" cried his mother. "Do you really love him so
much? But, in any case, you must not express such dangerous wishes.
Instead, you should think of living a good long time. Who knows what may
happen? Why couldn't you, in your turn, become Pope?"
A night and a day passed without any improvement in the Pope's
condition. When Signora Concenza met her son the following day, he
looked completely undone. She understood that he had passed the whole
day in prayer and fasting, and she began to feel deeply grieved. "I
verily believe that you mean to kill yourself for the sake of that sick
old man!" said she.
The son was hurt by again finding her without sympathy, and tried to
persuade her to sympathize a little with his grief. "You, truly, more
than any one else, ought to wish that the Pope might live," he said. "If
he may continue to rule, he will name my parish priest for bishop before
the year shall have passed and, in that event, my fortune is made. He
will then give me a good place in a cathedral. You shall not see me
going about any more in a worn-out cassock. I shall have plenty of
money, and I shall be able to help you and all your poor neighbors."
"But if the Pope dies?" asked Signora Concenza breathlessly.
"If the Pope dies, then no one can know--If my parish priest doesn't
happen to be in favor with his successor, we must both remain where we
now are for many years to come."
Signora Concenza came close to her son and regarded him anxiously. She
looked at his brow, which was covered with wrinkles, and at his hair
that was just turning gray. He looked tired and worn. It was actually
imperative that he should have that place at the cathedral right away.
"To-night I shall go to church and pray for the Pope," thought she. "It
won't do for him to die."
After supper she bravely conquered her fatigue and went out on the
streets. Great crowds of people thronged there. Many were only curious
and had gone out because they wished to catch the news of the death at
first hand; but many were really distressed and wandered from church to
church to pray.
As soon as Signora Concenza had come out on the street, she met one of
her daughters, who was married to a lithographer. "Oh, mother, but you
do right to come out and pray for him!" exclaimed the daughter. "You
can't imagine what a misfortune it would be if he were to die! My
Fabiano was ready to take his own life when he learned that the Pope was
ill."
She related how her husband, the lithographer, had but just struck off
hundreds of thousands of the Pope's pictures. Now, if the Pope were to
die, he wouldn't be able to sell half of them--no, not even a quarter of
them. He would be ruined. Their entire fortune was at stake.
She rushed on to gather some fresh news, wherewith she might comfort her
poor husband, who did not dare venture out, but sat at home and brooded
over his misfortune. Her mother stood still on the street, mumbling to
herself: "It won't do for him to die. It will never do for him to die!"
She walked into the first church she came to. There she fell upon her
knees and prayed for the life of the Pope.
As she arose to leave, she happened to lift her eyes to a little votive
tablet which hung on the wall just above her head. The tablet was a
representation of Death raising a terrifying two-edged sword to mow down
a young girl, while her mother, who had cast herself in his path, tries
in vain to receive the blow in place of her child.
She stood long before the picture, musing. "Signor Death is a careful
arithmetician," she remarked. "One has never heard of his agreeing to
exchange an old person for a young one."
She remembered her son's words that he would be willing to die in the
Pope's stead, and a shudder passed through her whole body. "Think, if
Death were to take him at his word!"
"No, no, Signor Death!" she whispered. "You mustn't believe him. You
must understand that he didn't mean what he said. He wants to live. He
doesn't want to leave his old mother, who loves him."
For the first time the thought struck her that if any one should
sacrifice himself for the Pope, it were better that she did it--she, who
was already old and had lived her life.
When she left the church, she happened into the company of some nuns of
the saintliest and most devout appearance, who lived in the northern
part of the country. They had travelled down to Rome to obtain a little
help from the Pope's treasury. "We are actually in the most dire need of
aid," they told old Concenza. "Only think! our convent was so old and
dilapidated that it blew down during the severe storm of last winter. We
may not now present our case to him. If he should die, we must return
home with an unaccomplished mission. Who can know if his successor will
be the sort of man who will trouble himself to succor poor nuns?"
It seemed as if all the people were thinking the same thoughts. It was
very easy to get into converse with any one. Each and all whom Signora
Concenza approached let her know that the Pope's death would be for them
a terrible misfortune.
The old woman repeated again and again to herself: "My son is right. It
will never do for the Pope to die."
A nurse was standing among a group of people, talking in a loud voice.
She was so affected that the tears streamed down her cheeks. She related
how five years ago she had been ordered away, to serve at a leper
hospital on an island at the other end of the globe. Naturally, she had
to obey orders; but she did so against her wishes. She had felt a
horrible dread of this mission. Before she left Rome, she was received
by the Pope, who had given her a special blessing and had also promised
her that if she came back alive she should have another audience with
him. And it was upon this that she had lived during the five years she
had been away--only on the hope that she might see the Holy Father once
more in this life! This had helped her to go through all the horrors.
And now, when she had got home at last, she was met by the news that he
lay upon his death-bed! She could not even see him!
She was in extreme despair, and old Concenza was deeply moved. "It would
really be much too great a sorrow for every one if the Pope were to
die," thought she, as she wandered farther up the street.
When she observed that many of the passers-by looked perfectly exhausted
from weeping, she thought with a sense of relief: "What a joy it would
be to see everybody's happiness if the Pope should recover!" And she,
like many others who have a buoyant disposition, was apparently no more
afraid of dying than of living; so she said to herself: "If I only knew
how it could be done, I would gladly give the Holy Father the years that
are left to me of life."
She said this somewhat in jest, but back of the words there was also
seriousness. She truly wished that she might realize something in that
way. "An old woman could not wish for a more beautiful death," thought
she. "I would be helping both my son and my daughter, and, besides, I
should make great masses of people happy."
Just as this thought stirred within her, she raised the patched curtain
which hung before the entrance of a gloomy little church. It was one of
the very old churches--one of those which appear to be gradually sinking
into the earth because the city's foundation has, in the intervening
years, raised itself several metres all around them. This church in its
interior had preserved somewhat of its ancient gloom, which must have
come down through the dark ages during which it had sprung into
existence. Involuntarily a shudder passed through one as one stepped in
under its low arches, which rested upon uncommonly thick pillars, and
saw the crudely painted saints' pictures that glimpsed down at one from
walls and altars.
When Signora Concenza came into this old church, which was thronged with
worshippers, she was seized with a mysterious awe and reverence. She
felt that in this sanctuary there verily lived a Deity. Beneath the
massive arches hovered something infinitely mighty and mysterious,
something which inspired such a sense of annihilating superiority that
she felt nervous about remaining in there. "Ah, this is no church where
one goes to hear a mass or to confessional," remarked Signora Concenza
to herself. "Here one comes when one is in great trouble, when one can
be helped in no other way than through a miracle."
She lingered down by the door and breathed in this strange air of
mystery and gloom. "I don't even know to whom this old church is
dedicated; but I feel that here there must be some one who is able to
grant us that which we pray for."
She sank down among the kneeling people, who were so many that they
covered the floor from the altar to the door. All the while that she
herself was praying, she heard around her sighs and sobs. All this grief
went to her heart and filled it with greater and greater compassion.
"Oh, my God, let me do something to save the old man!" she prayed. "In
the first place, I ought to help my children, and then all the other
people."
Every once in a while a thin little monk stole in among the praying and
whispered something in their ears. The one to whom he was speaking
instantly stood up and followed him into the sacristy.
Signora Concenza soon apprehended what there was in question. "They are
of the kind who give pledges for the Pope's recovery," thought she.
The next time the little monk made his rounds, she rose up and went with
him. It was a perfectly involuntary action. She fancied that she was
being impelled to do this by the power which ruled in the old church.
As soon as she came into the sacristy, which was even more archaic and
more mystical than the church itself, she regretted it. "What have I to
do in here?" she asked herself. "What have I to give away? I own nothing
but a couple of cartloads of garden truck. I certainly can't present the
saints with a few baskets of artichokes!"
At one side of the room there was a long table at which a priest stood
recording in a register all that was pledged to the saints. Concenza
heard how one promised to present the old church with a sum of money,
while a second promised to give his gold watch, and a third her pearl
earrings.
Concenza stood all the while down by the door. Her last poor copper had
been spent to procure a few delicacies for her son. She saw a number of
persons who appeared to be no richer than herself buying wax candles and
silver hearts. She turned her skirt pocket inside out, but she could not
afford even that much.
She stood and waited so long that finally she was the only stranger in
the sacristy. The priests walking about in there looked at her a little
astonished. Then she took a step or two forward. She seemed at the start
uncertain and embarrassed, but after the first move she walked lightly
and briskly up to the table. "Your Reverence!" she said to the priest,
"write that Concenza Zamponi, who was sixty last year, on Saint John the
Baptist's Day, gives all her remaining years to the Pope, that the
thread of his life may be lengthened!"
The priest had already begun writing. He was probably very tired after
having worked at this register the whole night, and thought no more
about the sort of things he was recording. But now he stopped short in
the middle of a word and looked quizzically at Signora Concenza. She met
his glance very calmly.
"I am strong and well, your Reverence," said she. "I should probably
have lived out my allotted seventy years. It is at least ten years that
I am giving to the Holy Father."
The priest marked her zeal and reverence and offered no objections. "She
is a poor woman," thought he. "She has nothing else to give."
"It is written, my daughter," he said.
When old Concenza came out from the church, it was so late that the
commotion had ceased and the streets were absolutely deserted. She found
herself in a remote part of the city, where the gas lamps were so far
apart that they dispelled only a very little of the darkness. All the
same, she walked on briskly. She felt very solemn within and was certain
that she had done something which would make many people happy.
As she walked up the street, she suddenly got the impression that a live
being circled above her head. In the darkness, between the tall houses,
she thought she could distinguish a pair of large wings, and she even
fancied she heard the sound of their beating.
"What is this?" said she. "Surely it can't be a bird! It is much too big
for that." All at once she thought she saw a face which was so white
that it illuminated the darkness. Then an unspeakable terror seized her.
"It is the Angel of Death hovering over me," thought she. "Ah, what have
I done? I have placed myself in the dreaded one's power!"
She started to run, but she could hear the rustle of the strong wings
and was convinced that Death was pursuing her.
She fled with breathless haste through several streets, thinking all the
while that Death was coming nearer and nearer her. She already felt his
wings brushing against her shoulder.
Suddenly she heard a whizzing in the air, and something heavy and sharp
struck her head. Death's two-edged sword had reached her. She sank to
her knees. She knew that she must lose her life.
A few hours later, old Concenza was found on the street by two workmen.
She lay there unconscious, stricken with apoplexy. The poor woman was
immediately removed to a hospital, where they succeeded in bringing her
to, but it was apparent that she could not live very long.
There was time, at all events, to send for her children. When, in a
state of despair, they reached her sick-bed, they found her very calm
and happy. She couldn't speak many words to them, but she lay and
caressed their hands. "You must be happy," said she, "happy, happy!"
Evidently she did not like their crying. She also bade the nurses smile
and show their joy. "Cheerful and happy," said she; "now you must be
cheerful and happy!" She lay there with hunger in her eyes, waiting to
see a little joy in their faces.
She grew more and more impatient with her children's tears and with the
solemn faces of the nurses. She began to utter things which no one could
comprehend. She said that in case they were not glad she might just as
well have lived. Those who heard her thought she was raving.
Suddenly the doors opened, and a young physician came into the
sick-room. He was waving a newspaper and calling in a loud voice: "The
Pope is better. He will live. A change has taken place in the night."
The nurses silenced him, so that he shouldn't disturb the dying woman,
but Signora Concenza had already heard him.
She had also marked a spark of joy--a gleam of happiness which could not
be concealed--pass through those who stood around her bed.
There she lay looking about her, with something far-seeing in her gaze.
It was as though she were looking out over Rome, where the people were
now thronging up and down the streets and greeting one another with the
joyful news.
She raised her head as high as she could and said: "So am I--I am very
happy. God has allowed me to die that he may live. I don't mind dying
when I have made so many people happy."
She lay down again, and a few seconds later she was dead.
* * * * *
But they say in Rome that, after his recovery, the Holy Father
entertained himself one day by looking through the church records of
pious pledges which had been offered for his recovery.
Smilingly he read the long lists of little gifts until he came to the
record where Concenza Zamponi had presented him with her remaining
years of life. Instantly he became very serious and thoughtful.
He made inquiries about Concenza Zamponi and learned that she had died
on the night of his recovery. He then bade them call to him her son,
Dominico, and questioned him minutely as to her last moments.
"My son," said the Pope to him when he had spoken, "your mother has not
saved my life, as she believed in her last hour; but I am deeply moved
by her love and self-sacrifice."
He let Dominico kiss his hand, whereupon he dismissed him.
But the Romans assure you that, although the Pope would not admit that
his span of years had been lengthened by the poor woman's gift, he was
nevertheless certain of it. "Why else should Father Zamponi have had
such a meteoric career?" asked the Romans. "He is already a bishop and
it is whispered that he will soon be a Cardinal."
And in Rome they never feared after that that the Pope would die, not
even when he was mortally ill. They were prepared to have him live
longer than other people. His life had of course been lengthened by all
the years that poor Concenza had given him.