“The Wondrous Flitting of the Kirk of our Blest Ledy of Lavreto.”
Underneath ran in parallel columns these two sentences:
“By decree of the Meikle Werthy Monsignor Vincent Casal of Bolonia Ruler
of This Helly Place Vnder the protection of the Mest Werthy Cardinal
Moroni.”
“I Robert Corbington Priest of the Companie of Jesvs in the Zeir MDCXXXV
Heve Trvlie translated the premisses of the Latin Storie Hangged vp in
the seyd Kirk.”
And underneath these parallel statements were the words, “To the Praise
and Glorie of the Mest Pvre and Immaculate Virgin.”
Then began the story proper:
“The Kirk of Lavreto was a caumber of the hovse of the blest Virgin near
Jerusalem in the towne of Nazaret in which she was borne and treined vp
and greeted of the angel and hairin also Conceaved and norisht har sonne
Jesvs.”
My eye ran impatiently over these known details and lighted at a lower
point of the great dimly lit slate.
“Pavl de Sylva an eremyt of micle godliness, wha woned in a cell near by
this Kirk whair daily he went to mattins, seyd that for ten zeirs, one
the eight of September, twelve hovrs before day, he saw a light descend
frem heaven vpon it, whilk he said was by the bu weathair shawed har
selfe [_sic_] one the feest of har birth. In proof of all whilk twa
verteous men of the seyd towne of Recanah many times avowed to me Rvler
of Terreman and Govenor of the forseyd Kirk as followeth. Ane of them,
nemmed Pavle Renallvci, affirmed that his grandsyres grandsyre sawe when
the angels broght it over sea setting it in the forseyd wood and hed oft
frequented it thair, the other nemmed Francis Prior sicklik seyd that
his Grandsyre, being a hunder and twaintie zeirs awd hed also meikle
havnted it in the same place and for a mere svr testimony that it had
beine thair he reported that his grandsyres grandsyre hed a hovse beside
it wharin he dwelled and that in his dayes it was beared by the angels
frae thence to the hill of they tweye brothers whar they set it as
seyd. . . .”
“The angels seem to have carried it about more than once,” I
interrupted.
“_Già_,” said the beadle. “At first they placed it on the hill of
Picino, in a grove of laurels which bowed before it and remained in
adoration. But so many thieves and assassins took cover under them to
plunder the pious pilgrims of their offerings that the laurels raised
their heads again, and after a stay of only eight months the Holy House
moved.”
“And came here?”
“Not yet. It moved first to a pleasant hill belonging to the brothers
Artici, ancestors of Leopardi.”
“Ah, the hill of they tweye brothers,” I murmured.
“But the treasure heaped upon it dazzled them. They might have fought
over it like Cain and Abel. So the house moved on.”
“And yet even Leopardi chanted the Madonna,” I said.
“_Lo credo_,” said the beadle, unastonished. “And there is still an
inscription on the hill, but it does not console the neighbourhood any
more than the chapel at Ravinizza.”
“The chapel at Ravinizza?”
“Did I not say? That was where it stopped first—near Dalmatia.”
“Quite a wandering Jew-house,” I murmured.
“That was in 1291, when the Holy Land fell into the power of the
Infidel”
“Ah, that was why it left Palestine!”
“Naturally. And you may imagine the agony of the Dalmatians when they
returned from the Crusades to find the Holy House no longer in
Ravinizza. Even to-day the pilgrims sail out in little boats singing,
‘Return to us, Maria, with thy house!’ But how could it return to
Dalmatia, seeing that seventy-five years before it left Palestine the
blessed St. Francis had foretold its coming here by his word _Picenum_,
which is a region on our side of the Adriatic, and being, moreover,
interpreted by Latin scholars is a prophetic acrostic?”
“It seems a pity the house did not come straight to Loreto,” I ventured.
“We are fortunate it did not go straight back to Nazareth after the
battle of Lepanto,” he said simply. “It was after our Lady’s victory
over the Turks that this marble screen was placed around it. Here is the
Treasury.” And thrusting roughly through the press of congregants, he
opened a door and ushered me into a palatial room where under the
ceiling-frescoes of Pomerancio of Pesaro I saw what seemed a vast bazaar
of every precious article known to humanity.
“The New Treasury,” he said apologetically. “The old treasure was seized
by Napoleon. It was worth 96,000,000 lire.” He looked sad.
“And how much is this worth?”
“Only 4,000,000.” And the unctuous catalogue recommenced. “A Genoese
family had given this case of jewellery; it was worth 100,000 lire.
These were the copes and vestments of Pio Nono (150,000 lire). This was
the diadem of Maria, Queen of Spain, wife of Carlo IV—behold the
amethysts, the brilliants, the rubies. These Oriental pearls were from
the Princess of Würtemberg. Each pearl cost 150,000 lire and there were
forty-three pearls—the _signore_ could calculate for himself. This
diamond tiara with an Oriental pearl in the centre was given by Maria
Louisa, Duchessa di Parma. It was worth 420,000 lire.”
“Restoring some of her first husband’s plunder,” I interrupted.
“_Già._ And the _Madonna Nera_ was given back too. And this pearl and
gold covering for her is from Maria Theresa, Archduchess of Austria. It
is worth 12,000 lire. And Giuseppe Napoleon’s wife gave us this
monstrance. And this cup is from Prince Maximilian of Austria, and these
regalia——”
The list went on, and I studied a coral model of the _Santa Casa_ with
the Mother and Son riding on the roof, while from the church came a
boy’s voice soaring heavenward.
“And do you refuse offerings from those who are not royal?” I broke in
at last.
“Ah, no,” he said seriously. “See! In that glass case are a thousand
rings from a thousand pilgrims, and this standard is from a pilgrim of
Budapest, and this little wooden ship—the _Maria_—was given by a
sailor, and this pearl showing the Madonna and her Son was found inside
a fish by a fisherman, and these ornaments painted with the juice of
grass are the work of priests, and this beautiful bronze candelabrum was
given by the Guild of Blacksmiths of Bologna. A Capuchin father from
South America brought us these great bouquets of flowers made of the
wings of Brazilian birds, and a Roumanian noble this little Byzantine
brass Madonna, and Prince Carraciolo of Naples——”
“_Basta!_” I cried hurriedly, for he was back in the “Almanach de
Gotha,” and, slipping a large piece of silver with a royal portrait on
it into his hand, I moved towards the door.
His face shone. “But you have not seen the cups in the _Santa Casa_ from
which the Holy Family drank. And their little bells, and——”
“I have seen enough,” I said.
“And the cannon-ball,” he went on in undiminished gratitude. “The
cannon-ball which shattered the pavilion of Pope Julius II when he was
besieging a city, but which by the grace of the Blessed Virgin left him
un——”
I escaped into the crowd of snooded peasant women and worked my way
along the aisle till I stood outside the portal under a gigantic Madonna
and Child.
But the beadle was beside me.
“Go and look at the Fontana della Santa Casa.” And he pointed in parting
gratitude to the centre of the piazza. “_Bellissima!_”
I did not go, but I looked at the great marble fountain with its
grotesque beasts and Cupids and basins, and remembering the humble
village fountain at which the carpenter’s daughter had filled her urn, I
turned sharply to the right and found myself descending a long sordid
street of shops and stalls, all doing a busy trade—despite the
Sunday—in crosses, rosaries, crucifixes, chaplets, picture-postcards,
medals, and all the knick-knacks of holiness. Sometimes through open
windows of the ugly one-storey houses I caught sight of the landscape
below—the path descending to the sea, bordered with buttercups and
a-flutter with birds, the rolling olive-plains, the strip of blue sea,
the wonderful headland. Never had I seen a lovelier view shut out by
meaner buildings. With its patches of refuse and its dreary shops and
booths it seemed the ugliest street in all Italy, bearing on its face
the mark of its bastard origin—a city grown up not from natural healthy
human life, but for the exploitation of a miracle.
And this it was that drew gold like water from the crowned heads of
Europe. And this it was that had drawn hither even Descartes, the first
Apostle of Philosophic Doubt. Surely “_Non_ cogito, ergo sum,” is the
motto of Faith, I thought.
* * * * *
I stood in a vast ancient market-place among canvas-covered stalls, by a
lovely fountain with a smiling little Bacchus that faced an old
cathedral, and I gazed like ten thousand others at a lovely open-air
pulpit that rose in the shadow of a tall campanile. From a bronze
capital it rose, girdled with beautiful marble reliefs of dancing
children by Donatello and protected from the sun by a charming circular
roof, and in this delectable coign of vantage stood a priest holding
something that fevered the perspiring mob.
“_La sacra cintola! La sacra cintola!_”
I knew what the Virgin’s girdle would be like, for had I not seen her
handing it to St. Thomas in Lippo Lippi’s picture in this same town of
Prato, as she flew up to heaven in the radiance of her youth and beauty,
standing on cherubs’ heads and escorted by angels? But now so far as I
could see this tasselled belt, it seemed to correspond ill with the
waist measurement of the little mother of Nazara.
Some white pigeons fluttered round the priest’s head and settled on the
pulpit, and a great sigh of ecstasy went up from the people.