Part 1

Produced by Al Haines.

*THE HIDDEN SERVANTS*

_and_ OTHER VERY OLD STORIES

_Told Over Again By_ FRANCESCA ALEXANDER

AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF IDA," "ROADSIDE SONGS OF TUSCANY," Etc.

_LONDON_ * Published by DAVID NUTT at the Sign of the Phoenix, Long Acre * _1907_

Copyright, 1900, By LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

All Rights Reserved

University Press * John Wilson and Son * Cambridge, U.S.A.

*Introduction*

To those who are fortunate enough to know Miss Alexander's pen and pencil pictures of Italian peasant life the very name of Francesca, over which her early work was published, carries with it an aroma as of those humbler graces of her adopted people,--their sunny charity, their native sense of the beautiful, their childlike faith,--which touch the heart more intimately than all their great achievements in History and in Art. For those, however, to whom are yet unknown her faithful transcripts in picture and story from the lives of the people she loves, a word of introduction has been asked; and it was perhaps thought that the task might properly be entrusted to one who had heard _The Hidden Servants_ and many another of these poems from the lips of Francesca herself.

Yet, rightly considered, could any experience have better served to banish from the mind such irrelevant intruders as facts,--those literal facts and data at least which the uninitiated might be so mistaken as to desire, but which none who knew Francesca's work could regard as of the slightest consequence?

Imagine a quiet, green-latticed room in Venice overlooking the Grand Canal whose waters keep time in gently audible lappings to the lilt of the verse,--that lilt that is apparent even in the printed line, but which only a voice trained to Italian cadences can perfectly give. Imagine that voice half chanting, half reciting, these old, old legends, and with an absolute sincerity of conviction which stirs the mind of the listeners, mere children of to-day though they be, to a faith akin to that which conceived the tales. Where is there place for facts in such a scene, in such an experience? Or, if facts must be, are not all that are requisite easily to be gleaned from the poems themselves? Why state that Francesca is the daughter of an American artist, or that she has spent her life in Italy, when the artist inheritance, the Italian atmosphere, breathes in every poem our little book contains? Why make mention even of Ruskin's enthusiastic heralding of her work, when the very spirit of it is so essentially that which the great idealist was seeking all his life that he could scarcely have failed to discover and applaud it had it been ever so retiring, ever so hidden? Nor does it matter that the Alexander home chances to be in Florence rather than in Venice, since it is Italy itself that lives in Francesca's work; nor that she is Protestant rather than Catholic, when it is religion pure and simple, unrestricted by any creed, that makes vital each line she writes or draws.

Yet of the poems, if not of the writer, there remained still something to learn, and accordingly a letter of inquiry was sent her; and her own reply, written with no thought of publication, is a better report than another could give. This is what she says:--

"With regard to this present collection of ballads, I can tell its history in a few words. When I was a young girl many old and curious books fell into my hands and became my favourite reading (next to the Bible, and, perhaps, the _Divina Commedia_), as I found in them the strong faith and simple modes of thought which were what I liked and wanted. Afterwards, in my constant intercourse with the country people, and especially with old people whom I always loved, I heard a great many legends and traditions, often beautiful, often instructive, and which, as far as I knew, had never been written down. I was always in request with children for the stories which I knew and could tell, and, as I found they liked these legends, I thought it a pity they should be lost after I should have passed away, and so I always meant to write them down; all the more that I had felt the need of such reading when I was a child myself. But I never had time to write them as long as my eyes permitted me to work at my drawing, and afterwards, when I wanted to begin them, I found myself unable to write at all for more than a few minutes at once. Finally I thought of turning the stories into rhyme and learning them all by heart, so that I could write them down little by little. I thought children would not be very particular, if I could just make the dear old stories vivid and comprehensible, which I tried to do. If, as you kindly hope, they may be good for older people as well, then it must be that when the Lord took from me one faculty He gave me another; which is in no way impossible. And I think of the beautiful Italian proverb: 'When God shuts a door He opens a window.'"

After such an account of the origin and growth of these poems no further comment would seem fitting, unless it be that made by Cardinal Manning when writing to Mr. Ruskin in 1883 to thank him for a copy of Francesca's _Story of Ida_. He writes:--

"It is simply beautiful, like the _Fioretti di San Francesco_. Such flowers can grow in one soil alone. They can be found only in the Garden of Faith, over which the world of light hangs visibly, and is more intensely seen by the poor and the pure in heart than by the rich, or the learned, or the men of culture."

ANNA FULLER.

*Preface*

*THE OLD STORY-TELLER*

_In my upper chamber here,_ _Still I wait from year to year;_ _Wondering when the time will come_ _That the Lord will call me home._ _All the rest have been removed,--_ _Those I worked for, those I loved;_ _And, at times, there seems to be_ _Little use on earth for me._ _Still God keeps me--He knows why--_ _When so many younger die!_

_From my window I look down_ _On the busy, bustling town._ _But beyond its noise and jar_ _I can see the hills afar;_ _And above it, the blue sky,_ _And the white clouds sailing by;_ _And the sunbeams, as they shine_ _On a world that is not mine._

_Here I wait, while life shall last,_ _An old relic of the past,_ _Feeling strange, and far away_ _From the people of to-day;_ _Thankful for the memory dear_ _Of a morning, always near,_ _Though long vanished, and so fair!_ _Dewy flowers and April air;_ _Thankful that the storms of noon_ _Spent their force and died so soon;_ _Thankful, as their echoes cease,_ _For this twilight hour of peace._

_But my life, to evening grown,_ _Still has pleasures of its own._ _Up my stairway, long and steep,_ _Now and then the children creep;_ _Gather round me, where I sit_ _All day long, and dream, and knit;_ _Fill my room with happy noise--_ _May God bless them, girls and boys!_ _Then sweet eyes upon me shine,_ _Dimpled hands are laid in mine;_ _And I never ask them why_ _They have sought to climb so high;_ _For 'twere useless to enquire!_ _'Tis a story they desire,_ _Taken from my ancient store,_ _None the worse if heard before;_ _And they turn, with pleading looks,_ _To my shelf of time-worn books,_ _Bound in parchment brown with age._ _Little in them to engage_ _Children's fancy, one would say!_ _Yet, when tired with noisy play,_ _Nothing pleases them so well_ _As the stories I can tell_ _From those pages, old and gray,_ _With their edges worn away;_ _Spelling queer, and Woodcut quaint._ _Angel, demon, prince, and saint,_ _Much alike in face and air;_ _Houses tipping here and there,_ _Lion, palm-tree, hermit's cell,_ _And much more I need not tell._

_Then they all attentive wait,_ _While the story I relate,_ _And, before the half is told,_ _I forget that I am old!_ _But one age there seems to be_ _For the little ones and me._ _What though all be new and strange,_ _Little children never change;_ _All is shifting day by day,--_ _Worse or better, who can say?_ _Much we lose, and much we learn,_ _But the children still return,_ _As the flowers do, every year;_ _Just as innocent and dear_ _As those babes who first did meet_ _At our Heavenly Master's feet._ _In His arms He took them all:_ _Oh, 'tis precious to recall--_ _Blessed to believe it true--_ _That what we love He loved too!_

_Since the time when life was new,_ _All my long, long journey through,_ _I have story-teller been._ _When a child I did begin_ _To my playmates; later on,_ _Other children, long since gone,_ _Came to listen; and of some,_ _Still the children's children come!_

_Some, the dearest, took their flight,_ _In the early morning light,_ _To the glory far away,_ _Made for them and such as they._ _I have lingered till the last;_ _All the busy hours are past;_ _Now my sun is in the west,_ _Slowly sinking down to rest_ _Ere it wholly fades from view,_ _One thing only I would do:_ _From my stories I would choose_ _Those 't would grieve me most to lose._ _And would tell them once again_ _For the children who remain,_ _And for others, yet to be,_ _Whom on earth I may not see._ _Here, within this volume small,_ _I have thought to write them all;_ _And to-day the work commence,_ _Trusting, ere God call me hence,_ _I may see the whole complete._ _It will be a labour sweet,_ _Calling back, in sunset glow,_ _Happy hours of long ago._

*CONTENTS*

Introduction

Preface

The Hidden Servants

The Bag of Sand

Il Crocifisso della Providenza

Angels in the Churchyard

The Origin of the Indian Corn

The Eldest Daughter of the King

Bishop Troilus

The Crosses on the Wall

Suora Marianna

The Lupins

The Silver Cross

The Tears of Repentance

*The Hidden Servants *_*AND OTHER POEMS*_

*THE HIDDEN SERVANTS*

A sheltered nook on a mountain side, Shut in, and guarded, and fortified By rocks that hardly a goat would climb, All smoothed by tempest and bleached by time-- Such was the spot that the hermit chose, From youth to age, for his life's repose. There had he lived for forty years, Trying, with penance and prayers and tears, To make his soul like a polished stone In God's great temple; for this alone Was the one dear wish that his soul possessed, And 't was little he cared for all the rest,

Nothing had changed since first he came; The sky and the mountain were all the same, Only a beech-tree, that there had grown Ere ever he builded his cell of stone, Had risen and spread to a stately grace, And its shifting shadow filled half the place. Many a winter its storms had spent, Many a summer its sunshine lent To the little cell, till it came to look Like another rock in the peaceful nook. Mosses and lichen had veiled the wall, Till it hardly seemed like a dwelling at all.

'T was a peaceful home when the days were soft, And spring in her sweetness crept aloft From the plains below where her work was done, And the hills grew green in the warming sun. And in summer the cell of the hermit seemed Like part of that heaven of which he dreamed: For the turf behind those walls of flint Was sprinkled with flowers of rainbow tint; And never a sound but the bees' low hum, As over the blossoms they go and come; Or--when one listened--the fainter tones Of a spring that bubbled between the stones.

But dreary it was on a winter's night, When the snow fell heavy and soft and white. And at times, when the morn was cold and keen, The footprints of wolves at his door were seen. But cold or hunger he hardly felt, So near to heaven the good man dwelt; And as for danger--why, death, to him, Meant only joining the Seraphim!

Poorly he lived, and hardly fared; And when the acorns and roots he shared With mole or squirrel, he asked no more, But thanked the Lord for such welcome store. The richest feast he could ever know Was when the shepherds who dwelt below, Whose sheep in the mountain pastures fed, Would bring him cheeses, or barley bread, Or--after harvest--a bag of meal; And then they would all before him kneel, On flowery turf or on moss-grown rocks, To ask a blessing for them and their flocks,

And once or twice he had wandered out To preach in the country round about, Where unto many his words were blest; Then back he climbed to his quiet nest. By all in trouble his aid was sought; And women their pining children brought, For a touch of his hand to ease their pain, And his prayers to make them strong again.

And now one wish in his heart remained: He longed to know what his soul had gained, And how he had grown in the Master's grace, Since first he came to that lonely place. This wish was haunting him night and day, He never could drive the thought away. Until at length in the beech-tree's shade He knelt, and with all his soul he prayed That God would grant him to know and see A man, if such in the world might be, Whose soul in the heavenly grace had grown To the self-same measure as his own; Whose treasure on the celestial shore Could neither be less than his nor more. He prayed with faith, and his prayer was heard; He hardly came to the closing word Before he felt there was some one there! He looked, and saw in the sun-lit air An angel, floating on wings of white; Nor did he wonder at such a sight: For angels often had come to cheer His soul, and he thought them always near. Happy and humble, he bowed his head, And listened, while thus the angel said: "Go to the nearest town, and there, To-morrow, will be in the market square A mountebank, playing his tricks for show: He is the man thou hast prayed to know; His soul, as seen by the light divine, Is neither better nor worse than thine. His treasure on the celestial shore Is neither less than thine own nor more."

Next day, in the dim and early morn, By a slippery path that the sheep had worn, The hermit went from his loved abode To the farms below, and the beaten road. The reapers, out in the field that day, Who saw him passing, did often say, What a mournful look the old man had! And his very voice was changed and sad. Troubled he was, and much perplexed; With endless doubting his mind was vexed. What--He? A mountebank? Both the same? What could it mean to his soul but shame? Had his forty years been vainly spent? And then, alas! as he onward went, There came an evil and bitter thought,-- Had he been serving the Lord for nought? But in his fear he began to pray, And the black temptation passed away.

Perhaps the mountebank yet might prove To have a soul in the Master's love. He almost felt that it must be so, In spite of a life that seemed so low. Perhaps he was forced such life to take, It might be, even for conscience' sake; Some cruel master the order gave, Perhaps, for scorn of a pious slave. Or, stay--there were saints in ancient days, Who had such terror of human praise That, but to gain the contempt they prized, They did such things as are most despised; Feigned even madness; and more than one, Accused of sins he had never done, Had willingly borne disgrace and blame, Nor said a word for his own good name!

In thoughts like these had the day gone by; The sun was now in the western sky: The road, grown level and hot and wide, With dusty hedges on either side, Had led him close to the city gate, Where he must enter to learn his fate.

Now fear did over his hope prevail: He almost wished in his search to fail, And find no mountebank there at all! For then his vision he well might call A dream that came of its own accord, Instead of a message from the Lord! A few more minutes, and then he knew That all which the angel said was true!

A mountebank, in the market square, Was making the people laugh and stare. With antics more befitting an ape Than any creature in human shape! The hermit took his place with the rest, Not heeding the crowd that round him pressed, And earnestly set his eyes to scan The face of the poor, unsaintly man. Alas, there was little written there Of inward peace or of answered prayer! For all the paint, and the droll grimace, 'T was a haggard, anxious, weary face.

The mountebank saw, with vague surprise, The patient, sorrowful, searching eyes, Whose look, so solemn, and kindly too, Seemed piercing all his disguises through. They made him restless, he knew not why: He could not play; it was vain to try! His face grew sober, his movements slow; And, soon as might be, he closed the show.

He saw that the hermit lingered on, When all the rest of the crowd were gone. Then over his gaudy clothes he drew A ragged mantle of faded hue; And he himself was the first to speak: "Good Father, is it for me you seek?" "My son, I have sought you all the day; Would you come with me a little way, Into some quiet corner near, Where no one our words can overhear?"

Not far away, in a lonely street, By a garden wall they found a seat. It now was late, and the sun had set, Though a golden glory lingered yet, And the moon looked pale in it overhead. They sat them down, and the hermit said: "My son, to me was a vision sent, And as yet I know not what it meant; But I think that you, and you alone, Are able to make its meaning known. Answer me then--I have great need-- And tell me, what is the life you lead?"

"My life's a poor one, you may suppose! I 've many troubles that no one knows; For I have to keep a smiling face. I wander, friendless, from place to place, Risking my neck for a scanty gain; But I must do it, and not complain. I know, whatever may go amiss, That I have deserved much worse than this."

To the hermit this a meaning bore Of deep humility, nothing more. So, gaining courage, "But this," he said, "Is not the life you have always led. So much the vision to me revealed; I know there 's something you keep concealed."

The mountebank answered sadly: "Yes! 'T is true: you ask, and I must confess. But keep my secret, good Father, pray; Or my life will not be safe for a day! Alas, I have led a life of crime! I 've been an evil man in my time. I was a robber--I think you know-- Till little more than a year ago; One of a desperate, murderous band, A curse and terror to all the land!"

The hermit's head sank down on his breast; His trembling hands to his eyes he pressed. "Has God rejected me?" then he moaned: "Are all my service and love disowned? Have I been blind, and my soul deceived?"

The other, seeing the old man grieved, Said: "Father, why do you care so much For one not worthy your robe to touch? The Lord is gracious, and if He will, He can forgive and save me still. And as for my wicked life, 't is I, Not you, who have reason to weep and sigh! Your prayers may help me, and bring me peace."

The hermit made him a sign to cease; Then raised his head, and began to speak, With tears on his wrinkled, sun-browned cheek. "If you could remember even one Good deed that you in your life have done, I need not go in despair away. Think well; and if you can find one, say!"

"Once," said the mountebank, "that was all, I did for the Lord a service small, And never yet have I told the tale! But if you wish it, I will not fail. A few of our men had gone one day-- 'T was less for plunder, I think, than play-- To a certain convent, small and poor, Where a dozen sisters lived secure For very poverty! dreaming not That any envied their humble lot. There, finding the door was locked and barred, They climbed the wall of a grass-grown yard. Some vines were planted along its side, Their trailing branches left room to hide; Where, neither by pity moved nor shame, They crouched, till one of the sisters came To gather herbs for the noonday meal; Then out from under the leaves they steal! So she was taken, poor soul, and bound, And carried off to our camping ground. A harmless creature, who knew no more Of the world outside her convent door, Than you or I of the moon up there! A shame, to take her in such a snare!

"But, Father, I wished that I had been Ten miles away, when they brought her in, To hold for ransom; or if that failed-- Oh, well, we knew when the pirates sailed! We knew their captain, who paid us well, And carried our prisoners off to sell. They never beheld their country more, Being bought for slaves on a foreign shore.

"But oh! 't was enough the tears to bring, To see that innocent, frightened thing, Looking, half hopeful, from face to face, As if she thought, in that wicked place, There might be one who would take her part! She looked at me, and it stung my heart. But I, with a hard, disdainful air, Turned from her as one who did not care, I heard her sighing: she did not know That her gentle look had hurt me so!

"That night they set me the watch to keep; And when the others were all asleep, And I had been moving to and fro, With branches keeping the fire aglow, I crept along to the woman's side,-- She sat apart, and her arms were tied,-- And said,--'t was only a whispered word; We both were lost if the others heard,-- 'If you will trust me and with me come, I 'll bring you safe to your convent home.' She started, into my face she gazed; Said she, 'I'll trust you--the Lord be praised!'

"I very quickly the cords unbound. She rose; I led her without a sound Between the rows of the sleeping men, Till we left the camp behind; and then I found my horse, that was tied near by. The woman mounted, and she and I Set off in haste, through the midnight shade, On the wildest journey I ever made! By wood and thicket the horse I led, And over a torrent's stony bed,-- For along the road I dared not go, For fear that the others our flight should know, And follow after; the woman prayed. I, quick and cautious, but not afraid, Went first, with the stars for guide, until We saw the convent, high on a hill. We reached the door as the east grew red. 'God will remember!' was all she said; Her face was full of a sweet content. She knocked, they opened, and in she went. The door was closed--she was safe at last! I heard the bolt as they made it fast-- And I in the twilight stood alone, With the lightest heart I had ever known!

"So, Father, my robber days were o'er; I could not be what I was before. I wandered on with a thankful mind, For I left the old bad life behind, And tried, as I journeyed day by day, To gain my bread in an honest way. But little work could I find to do; And so, as some juggling tricks I knew, I took this business which now you see: 'T is good enough for a man like me!"

While yet the story was going on, The cloud from the hermit's face had gone; And if his eyes in the moonlight shone, They glistened with thankful tears alone. He listened in solemn awe until The mountebank's tale was done; and still, Some moments, he neither spoke nor stirred, But silently pondered every word.