More Italian Yesterdays - Mrs. Hugh Fraser

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her companions, so as to be near the brother she loved. Only once a year did they meet, and then they spent the day together in a hut on the side of Benedict’s mountain, he coming down with a few of the brethren, and she accompanied by some of the nuns. All their discourse was of holy things, and much they spoke of the longed-for joys of heaven.

      Now in the year 543 they had thus passed the day together, and evening was drawing on. St. Benedict rose, saying that he and his companions must return to the monastery, but Scholastica, for the first time in all those years, begged him to remain with her till the morning. The Saint was horrified. “Do you not know, my sister,” he exclaimed, “that the Rule forbids a monk to pass the night out of the monastery? How can you ask me to do such a thing?”

      Scholastica did not reply. She bowed her head on her hands on the table that had served for their repast, and wept, praying to God that her brother might stay, for she knew that they were to meet no more in this world. She wept so heart-brokenly that her tears flooded the table and made little rivers on the ground. It was a mild February evening, and the sun had sunk away from a calm and cloudless sky. But suddenly a fearful tempest arose, the thunder roared, the rain came down in torrents, the lightning seared the heavens from side to side.

      “Sister, what have you done?” St. Benedict exclaimed, fearing that the storm was a manifestation of the Divine displeasure.

      Scholastica raised her head and smiled at him through her tears. “God has granted what you refused,” she said. “Go back to the monastery now, brother, if you can!”

      But there was no going back through that tempest, and St. Benedict, perceiving that the Lord was on Scholastica’s side, stayed with her till morning, and they had great sweetness of holy converse all night long. And when the sun rose, Scholastica asked for his blessing and said farewell for the last time, and she and her nuns went down the hill to their own convent, looking back many times, I think, to that other one on the hill. And three days later she died, and her brother saw her soul mount to heaven under the appearance of a spotless dove, and he called his monks and said to them with great rejoicing: “My sister is with God. Go and bring her body hither that we may bury it with honour.” Which they did, and Benedict made her a grave at the foot of the altar in his church.

      Now he knew that his own end was approaching, and he disposed all things rightly, and mightily exhorted his brethren to persevere and to be faithful to their Rule. And he more than ever afflicted his body with penance and abounded in charity to the poor. And thirty-four days after Scholastica had departed, a great fever seized him, so that he had no strength and suffered much. But he never ceased from praying, and bade all his monks pray that God would have mercy on his soul. On the sixth day of the fever he bade them carry him into the church, where he had already caused his sister’s grave to be opened to receive him. There, on the edge of the grave, supported by his disciples, he received the Holy Viaticum, and then bade them lift him to his feet. He stretched out his arms, praised God once more for all His goodness, and died—standing, like the gallant warrior he was!

      They buried him beside Scholastica. Two of his monks, whom he had sent forth on a mission, were very far away from Monte Cassino when they saw, in the dead of night, a vast number of the stars of heaven run together to form a great bridge of light towards the east. A voice spoke to them, saying, “By this road, Benedict, the beloved of God, has ascended to heaven.”

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      Three years before St. Benedict and his sister Scholastica passed away, there was born, in a palace on the Cœlian Hill, a child who was christened Gregory, a name which signified “Vigilant.” His lineage was exceedingly illustrious, his parents belonging to the great old Gens Anicia, a family of nobles which had been respected and honoured ever since the days of the Republic, and in which, to use the words of a chronicler of Gregory’s time, “the men seemed all to have been born Consuls, and the women Saints.”

      Gregory’s mother was St. Silvia, and I have seen the garden, on the quiet Cœlian Hill, where as a child he ran about at her side, asking a thousand questions, as clever children will, while she tended her flowers and gathered healing herbs—the “basilica” and “Madrecara” and “erba della Madonna” still dear to Roman apothecaries, to make into medicines for the sick poor who thronged her charitable doors. Mothers see a long way, and while Gregory’s father was planning a great career in the world for his only son, Silvia was praying that God would keep him pure, and make him great in His sight. And her prayers prevailed, as mothers’ prayers generally do, and though she had to wait a little, she lived to see their fulfilment.

      

      As the boy grew up he threw himself heart and soul into his father’s plans; he studied hard, and his naturally brilliant gifts brought him much distinction. He rejoiced in all the pleasant things that birth and wealth had bestowed on him—good looks, popularity, rich garments, and sparkling jewels—and no doubt was immensely pleased and flattered when, being still quite young, he was made Proctor of Rome. That charge, however, was a grave one at the time, as the Lombards, the most cruel and brutal of all the savage tribes that had threatened the eternal city, chose the period of Gregory’s proctorship to descend upon her and make her feel the weight of their heavy hand. There were religious troubles too, and Gregory, who, through all his busy official life in the world, was an ardent Christian, was deeply exercised and distressed by them. But the world was only to claim him for a little while, in his early manhood. Then he was withdrawn from it to be prepared, through many long years of prayer and penance and study, to step forth towards the end of his life as its rescuer and ruler. Little by little the inner call came, faint at first, sometimes resisted, but ever stronger, till Gregory understood and obeyed.

      His heart had gone out at once to the Benedictine monks, when, on the destruction of Monte Cassino by the Lombards, they had sought refuge in Rome. Some of them became his most intimate friends, and their encouragement smoothed his path from the world to the cloister. From the moment when he recognized and embraced his vocation, all hesitation left him. He sold all his goods, distributed the larger part to the poor, and, as if to atone for what the Lombards had destroyed, built and endowed six new monasteries, placing twelve Benedictines in each, in Sicily. That done, he converted his home on the Cœlian into a seventh, where he gathered another community about him, of the same learned Order. His father was dead, and his mother, on becoming a widow, had already built a convent close by, where she had taken the veil herself.

      Gregory now devoted himself to three things, prayer, study, and charity. For his own use—he was quickly elected Abbot of the monastery—he reserved a small cell, where he could enjoy the solitude he now so greatly desired, but—a delightfully human touch!—he could not get on without his favourite cat, and one can see him in imagination, pausing from his writing to smooth her velvety head when she sprang upon the table and rubbed it against his cheek! I had a little cat once who would sit motionless on a chair beside me all night while I was writing, but the instant I laid down the pen she was on my lap or my shoulder, talking in her own way, most intelligently and cheeringly; so I was mightily pleased when I read about St. Gregory’s cat!

      The Benedictine Rule provided for all hospitality to strangers and the poor, but at the same time directed that the monks themselves were not to be disturbed from prayer and study. St. Gregory, however, seems to have received all who wished to see him, perhaps as an exercise of patience. Now there was a poor shipwrecked sailor who seemed inclined to abuse the privilege. He came again and again, and was never turned away, but on the occasion of what proved to be his last visit Gregory had not a single thing left to give him. He was looking round his rough cell in perplexity, when a messenger appeared bringing the silver basin full of porridge which was the only food he allowed himself, and which his mother sent him every day. Here was what was needed! The next moment the needy sailor man was walking away with the hot porridge and the silver porringer. What St. Silvia said when she heard of the incident has not been recorded—but Gregory never gave the matter another thought until one day, long after, when the importunate sailor appeared to him in his true character, that of an angel of light,

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