VI Father Bianchi’s Tale

Father Bianchi, as the days went on, seemed a little less dogmatic on the theory that miracles (except, of course, those of the saints) did not happen. He was warned by Monsignor Maxwell that his turn was approaching to contribute a story, and suddenly at supper announced that he would prefer to get it over at once that evening.

“But I have nothing to tell,” he cried, expostulating with hands and shoulders, “nothing to tell but the nonsense of an old peasant-woman.”

When we had taken our places upstairs, and the Italian had again apologized and remonstrated with raised eyebrows, he began at last, and I noticed that he spoke with a seriousness that I should not have expected.

“When I was first a priest,” he said, “I was in the south of Italy, and said my first mass in a church in the hills. The village was called Arripezza.”

“Is that true?” said Monsignor suddenly, smiling.

The Italian grinned brilliantly. “Well, no,” he said, “but it is near enough, and I swear to you that the rest is true. It was a village in the hills, ten miles from Naples. They have many strange beliefs there; it is like Father Brent’s Cornwall. All along the coast, as you know, they set lights in the windows on one night of the year, because they relate that our Lady once came walking on the water with her divine Child, and found none to give her shelter. Well, this village that we will call Arripezza was not on the coast. It was inland, but it had its own superstitions to compensate it—superstitions cursed by the Church.

“I knew little of all this when I went there. I had been in the seminary until then.

“The parrocho was an old man, but old! He could say mass sometimes on Sundays and feasts, but that was all, and I went to help him. There were many at my first mass as the custom is, and they all came up to kiss my hands when it was done.

“When I came back from the sacristy again there was an old woman waiting for me, who told me that her name was Giovannina. I had seen her before as she kissed my hands. She was as old as the parrocho himself—I cannot tell how old—yellow and wrinkled as a monkey.

“She put five lire into my hands.

“‘Five masses, Father,’ she said, ‘for a soul in purgatory.’

“‘And the name?’

“‘That does not matter,’ she said. ‘And will you say them, my Father, at the altar of S. Espedito?’

“I took the money and went off, and as I went down the church, I saw her looking after me, as if she wished to speak, but she made no sign, and I went home; and I had a dozen other masses to say, some for my friends, and a couple that the parrocho gave me, and those, therefore, I began to say first. When I had said the fifth of the twelve, Giovannina waited for me again at the door of the sacristy. I could see that she was troubled.

“‘Have you not said them, my Father?’ she asked. ‘He is here still.’

“I did not notice what she said, except the question, and I said no; I had had others to say first. She blinked at me with her old eyes a moment, and I was going on, but she stopped me again.

“‘Ah! Say them at once, my Father,’ she said; ‘he is waiting.’

“Then I remembered what she had said before and I was angry.

“‘Waiting!’ I said; ‘and so are thousands of poor souls.’

“‘Ah, but he is so patient,’ she said; ‘he has waited so long.’

“I said something sharp, I forget what, but the parrocho had told me not to hang about and talk nonsense to women, and I was going on, but she took me by the arm.

“‘Have you not seen him too, my Father?’ she said.

“I looked at her, thinking she was mad, but she held me by the arm and blinked up at me, and seemed in her senses. I told her to tell me what she meant, but she would not. At last I promised to say the masses at once. The next morning I began the masses, and said four of them, and at each the old woman was there close to me, for I said them at the altar of S. Espedito that was in the nave, as she had asked me, and I had a great devotion to him as well, and she was always at her chair just outside the altar-rails. I scarcely saw her, of course, for I was a young priest and had been taught not to lift my eyes when I turned round, but on the fourth day I looked at her at the Orate fratres and she was staring not at me or the altar, but at the corner on the left. I looked there when I turned, but there was nothing but the glass case with the silver hearts in it to S. Espedito.

“That was on a Friday, and in the evening I went to the church again to hear confessions, and when I was done, the old woman was there again.

“‘They are nearly done, my Father?’ she said, ‘and you will finish them to-morrow?’

“I told her Yes; but she made me promise that whatever happened I would do so.

“Then she went on, ‘Then I will tell you, my Father, what I would not before. I do not know the man’s name, but I see him each day during mass at that altar. He is in the corner. I have seen him there ever since the church was built.’

“Well, I knew she was mad then, but I was curious about it, and asked her to describe him to me; and she did so. I expected a man in a sheet or in flames or something of the kind, but it was not so. She described to me a man in a dress she did not know—a tunic to the knees, bareheaded, with a short sword in his hand. Well, then I saw what she meant, she was thinking of S. Espedito himself. He was a Roman soldier, you remember, gentlemen?

“‘And a cuirass?’ I said. ‘A steel breastplate and helmet?’

“Then she surprised me.

“‘Why, no, Father; he has nothing on his head or breast, and there is a bull beside him.’

“Well, gentlemen, I was taken aback by that. I did not know what to say.”

Monsignor leant swiftly forward.

“Mithras,” he said abruptly.

The Italian smiled.

“Monsignor knows everything,” he said.

Then I broke in, because I was more interested than I knew.

“Tell me, Monsignor, what was Mithras?”

The priest explained shortly. It was an Eastern worship, extraordinarily pure, introduced into Italy a little after the beginning of the Christian era. Mithras was a god, filling a position not unlike that of the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity. He offered a perpetual sacrifice, and through that sacrifice souls were enabled to rise from earthly things to heavenly, if they relied upon it and accompanied that faith by works of discipline and prayer.

“I beg your pardon, Father Bianchi,” he ended.

The Italian smiled again.

“Yes, Monsignor,” he said, “I know that now, but I did not know it for many years afterwards, and I know something else now that I did not know then. Well, to return.

“I told my old woman that she was dreaming, that it could not be so, that there was no room for a bull in the corner, that it was a picture of S. Espedito that she was thinking of.

“‘And why did you not get the masses said before?’ I asked.

“She smiled rather slyly at me then.

“‘I did get five said once before,’ she said, ‘in Naples, but they did him no good. And when once again I told the parrocho here, he told me to be off; he would not say them.’

“And she had waited for a young priest, it seemed, and had determined not to tell him the story till the masses were said, and had saved up her money meanwhile.

“Well, I went home, and got to talking with the old priest, and led him on, so that he thought that he had introduced the subject, and presently he told me that when the foundation of the church had been laid forty years before, they had found an old cave in the hill, with heathen things in it. He knew no more than that about it, but he told me to fetch a bit of pottery from a cupboard, and showed it me, and there was just the tail of a bull upon it, and an eagle.”

Monsignor leaned forward again.

“Just so,” he said, “and the bull was lying down?”

The Italian nodded, and was silent.

We all looked at him. It seemed a tame ending, I thought. Then Father Brent put our thoughts into words.

“That is not all?” he said.

Father Bianchi looked at him sharply, and at all of us, but said nothing.

“Ah! that is not all,” said the other again persistently.

“Bah!” cried the Italian suddenly. “It was not all, if you will have it so. But the rest is madness, as mad as Giovannina herself. What I saw, I saw because she made me expect it. It was nothing but the shadow, or the light in the glass case.”

A perceptible thrill ran through us all. The abrupt change from contempt to seriousness was very startling.

“Tell us, Father,” said the English priest; “we shall think no worse of you for it. If it was only the shadow, what harm is there in telling it?”

“Indeed you must finish,” went on Monsignor; “it is in the contract.”

The Italian looked round again, frowned, smiled and laughed uneasily.

“I have told it to no one till to-day,” he said, “but you shall hear it. But it was only the shadow—you understand that?”

A chorus, obviously insincere, broke out from the room.

“It was only the shadow, Padre Bianchi.”

Again the priest laughed shortly; then the smile faded, and he went on.

“I went down early the next morning, before dawn, and I made my meditation before the Blessed Sacrament; but I could not help looking across once or twice at the corner by S. Espedito’s altar; it was too dark to see anything clearly; but I could make out the silver hearts in the glass case. When I had finished Giovannina came in.

“I could not help stopping by her chair as I went to rest.

“‘Is there anything there?’ I asked.

“She shook her head at me.

“‘He is never there till mass begins,’ she said.

“The sacristy door that opens out of doors was set wide as I came past it in my vestments; and the dawn was coming up across the hills, all purple.”

Monsignor murmured something, and the priest stopped.

“I beg your pardon,” said Monsignor; “but that was the time the sacrifice of Mithras was offered.”

“When I came out into the church,” went on the priest, “it was all gray in the light of the dawn, but the chapels were still dark. I went up the steps, not daring to look in the corner, and set the vessels down. As I was spreading the corporal the server came up and lighted the candles. And still I dared not look. I turned by the right and came down, and stood waiting till he knelt beside me.

“Then I found I could not begin. I knew what folly it was, but I was terribly frightened. I heard the server whisper, In nomine Patris....

“Then I shut my eyes tight, and began.

“Well, by the time I had finished the preparation, I felt certain that something was watching me from the corner. I told myself, as I tell myself now,” snapped the Italian fiercely—“I told myself it was but what the woman had told me. And then at last I opened my eyes to go up the steps, but I kept them down, and only saw the dark corner out of the side of my eyes.

“Then I kissed the altar and began.

“Well, it was not until the Epistle that I understood that I should have to face the corner at the reading of the Gospel; but by then I do not think I could have faced it directly, even if I had wished.

“So when I was saying the Munda cor in the centre, I thought of a plan, and as I went to read the Gospel I put my left hand over my eyes, as if I were in pain, and read the Gospel like that. And so all through the mass I went on; I always dropped my eyes when I had to turn that way at all, and I finished everything and gave the blessing.

“As I gave it, I looked at the old woman, and she was kneeling there, staring across at the corner; so I knew that she was still dreaming she saw something.

“Then I went to read the last Gospel.”

The priest was plainly speaking with great difficulty; he passed his hands over his lips once or twice. We were all quiet.

“Well, gentlemen, courage came to me then; and as I signed the altar I looked straight into the corner.”

He stopped again, and began resolutely once more; but his voice rang with hysteria.

“Well, gentlemen, you understand that my head was full of it now, and that the corner was dark, and that the shadows were very odd.”

“Yes, yes, Padre Bianchi,” said Monsignor easily, “and what did the shadows look like?”

The Italian gripped the arms of the chair, and screamed his answer.

“I will not tell you, I will not tell you. It was but the shadow. My God, why have I told you the tale at all?”