Part 12

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.

The Story of a Story

Once there was a story that wanted to be told and sent out in the world. This was very natural, inasmuch as it knew that it was already as good as finished. Many, through remarkable deeds and strange events, had helped create it; others had added their straws in it by again and again relating these things. What it lacked was merely a matter of being joined together, so that it could travel comfortably through the country. As yet it was only a confused jumble of stories--a big, formless cloud of adventures rushing hither and thither like a swarm of stray bees on a summer's day, not knowing where they will find some one who can gather them into a hive.

The story that wanted to be told had sprung up in Vermland, and you may be sure that it circled over many mills and manors, over many parsonages and many homes of military officers, in the beautiful province, peering through the windows and begging to be cared for. But it was forced to make many futile attempts, for everywhere it was turned away. Anything else was hardly to be expected. People had many things of much more importance to think of.

Finally the story came to an old place called Mårbacka. It was a little homestead, with low buildings overshadowed by giant trees. At one time it had been a parsonage, and it was as if this had set a certain stamp upon the place which it could not lose. They seemed to have a greater love for books and reading there than elsewhere, and a certain air of restfulness and peace always pervaded it. There rushing with duties and bickering with servants were never met with, nor was hatred or dissension given house room, either. One who happened to be a guest there was not allowed to take life too seriously, but had to feel that his first duty was to be light-hearted and believe that for one and all who lived on this estate our Lord managed everything for the best.

As I think of the matter now, I apprehend that the story of which I am speaking must have lingered thereabouts a great many years during its vain longing to be told. It seems to me as though it must have enwrapped the place, as a mist shrouds a mountain summit, now and then letting one of the adventures of which it consisted rain down upon it.

They came in the form of strange ghost stories about the superintendent of the foundries, who always had black bulls hitched to his wagon when he drove home at night from a revel. And in his home the Evil One himself used to sit in the rocker and rock while the wife sat at the piano and played. They came as true stories from the neighboring homestead, where crows had persecuted the mistress until she didn't dare venture outside the door; from the Captain's house, where they were so poor that everything had to be borrowed; from the little cottage down by the church, where there lived a lot of young and old girls who had all fallen in love with the handsome organ builder.

Sometimes the dear adventures came to the homestead in an even more tangible form. Aged and poverty-stricken army officers would drive up to the doorstep behind rickety old horses and in rickety carryalls. They would stop and visit for weeks, and in the evenings, when the toddy had put courage into them, they would talk of the time when they had danced in stockingless shoes, so that their feet would look small, of how they had curled their hair and dyed their mustaches. One of them told how he had tried to take a pretty young girl back to her sweetheart and how he had been hunted by wolves on the way; another had been at the Christmas feast where an angered guest had flung all the hazel-hens at the wall because some one had made him believe they were crows; a third had seen the old gentleman who used to sit at a plain board table and play Beethoven.

But the story could reveal its presence in still another way. In the attic hung the portrait of a lady with powdered hair, and when any one walked past it he was reminded that it was a portrait of the beautiful daughter of the Count, who had loved her brother's young tutor, and had called to see him once when she was an old gray-haired lady and he an old married man. In the lumber room were heaped up bundles of documents containing deeds of purchase and leases signed by the great lady, who once ruled over seven foundries which had been willed to her by her lover. If one entered the church, one saw in a dusty little cabinet under the pulpit the chest filled with infidel manuscripts, which was not to be opened until the beginning of the new century. And not very far from the church is the river, at the bottom of which rests a pile of sacred images that were not allowed to remain in the pulpit and chancel they once had ornamented.

It must have been because so many legends and traditions hovered around the farm that one of the children growing up there longed to become a narrator. It was not one of the boys. They were not at home very much, for they were away at their schools almost the whole year; so the story did not get much of a hold upon them. But it was one of the girls--one who was delicate and could not romp and play like other children, but found her greatest enjoyment in reading and hearing stories about all the great and wonderful things which had happened in the world.

However, at the start it was not the girl's intention to write about the stories and legends surrounding her. She hadn't the remotest idea that a book could be made of these adventures, which she had so often heard related that to her they seemed the most commonplace things in the world. When she tried to write, she chose material from her books, and with fresh courage she strung together stories of the Sultans in "Thousand and One Nights," Walter Scott's heroes, and Snorre Sturleson's "Kings of Romance."

Surely it is needless to state that what she wrote was the least original and the crudest that has ever been put upon paper. But this very naturally she herself did not see. She went about at home on the quiet farm, filling every scrap of paper she could lay her hands on with verse and prose, with plays and romances. When she wasn't writing, she sat and waited for success. And success was to consist in this: Some stranger who was very learned and influential, through some rare freak of fortune, was to come and discover what she had written and find it worth printing. After that, all the rest would come of itself.

Meanwhile nothing of the sort happened. And when the girl had passed her twentieth year, she began to grow impatient. She wondered why success did not come her way. Perhaps she lacked knowledge. She probably needed to see a little more of the world than the homestead in Vermland. And seeing that it would be a long time before she could earn her livelihood as an author, it was necessary for her to learn something--find some work in life--that she might have bread while she waited for herself. Or maybe it was simply this--that the story had lost patience with her. Perhaps it thought thus: "Since this blind person does not see that which lies nearest her eyes, let her be forced to go away. Let her tramp upon gray stone streets; let her live in cramped city rooms with no other outlook than gray stone walls; let her live among people who hide everything that is unusual in them and who appear to be all alike. It may perchance teach her to see that which is waiting outside the gate of her home--all that lives and moves between the stretch of blue hills which she has every day before her eyes."

And so, one autumn, when she was two-and-twenty, she travelled up to Stockholm to begin preparing herself for the vocation of teacher.

The girl soon became absorbed in her work. She wrote no more, but went in for studies and lectures. It actually looked as though the story would lose her altogether.