St. John of the Golden Mouth was another famous penitent we had here in Rome. He had treated a number of young girls shamefully, and then killed them.
But one day the grace of God touched him, and he went out into the Campagna, to a solitary place, and there, with a wattle of rushes, he made himself a hut, and lived there doing penance far, far away from any human habitation.
One day a king, and his wife, and his sons, and his daughter all went out to hunt. They got overtaken by a storm, and separated; some hasted home in one direction, and some in another, but the daughter they could not find anywhere, and when they had searched everywhere for many days and could not find her, they gave her up for lost.
But she, as she was running, had seen the hut of St. John of the Golden Mouth, and knocked at the door.
‘Begone!’ shouted the penitent, thinking it was the Devil come to tempt him.
But she continued knocking.
‘Begone! Out into the wild! nor disturb my peace, Evil One!’ shouted he again.
‘I am not the Evil One,’ answered the princess; ‘I am only a woman; I have lost my way, and crave shelter from the storm.’
When he heard that, he got up and let her in; but when he saw her, he could not resist treating her as he had treated the other maidens. Then he killed her, and threw her body into a well.
But the next day, when he came to think of what he had done, he said to himself,
‘How is it possible that I, who have come here to do penance for my crimes, should out here, even in my penitential hut, commit the same crime again? I must go further from temptation, and do deeper penance yet.’
So he left the shelter of his hut, and all his clothes, and went into the wild country and lived with the wild beasts, and became like one of them. After many years he grew quite accustomed to go on all fours, and his body was all covered with hair like a lion’s, and he lost the use of speech.
Then, one day the same king went out hunting. Suddenly there was a great cry of the dogs. They had found an animal of which the huntsmen had never seen the like before. So strange was it, that they said, we must not kill it, but must bring it to the king. With much difficulty they whipped the dogs off, and they brought it to the king, so like a four-footed creature had San Giovanni Bocca d’oro grown.
Neither could the king make out what kind of creature it was; so he told the huntsmen to put a chain on it, and bring it to the palace.
When they got home to the palace, everyone was astonished at the appearance of the creature the huntsmen had with them, and they called out with such loud exclamations that the queen, who was ill in bed, heard them, and she asked what it was about. When they told her, she was seized with a violent desire to see the creature. But they said she must by no means see it, being ill; but the more they opposed her wish, the more vehement she was to see it, till, at last, the nurses said it would do more harm to continue refusing her than to let her see it.
So they led the creature by the chain into her room, and placed him by her bedside.
When the queen saw him, she said, ‘This is no four-footed beast, but a man, like one of you.’ And she spoke to him, and asked him to say who he was; but he had lost the use of speech, and could not answer her.
Then the baby that was lying on the pillow by her side, just born, raised its head, and said out loud, so that all could hear, in a voice plain and clear—
‘Giovanni Bocca d’oro, God hath forgiven thee thy sins and iniquities.’
The queen was yet more astonished when she heard her new-born babe speak thus, and she asked St. John what it could mean. When she saw he could not answer her, she ordered that they should give him pen and paper.
Then, though they gave him a common pen, all he wrote appeared in letters of shining gold, and he wrote down all that I have told you. Moreover, he bid them send to the well where he had thrown the body of the princess, and fetch her back.
When they had done so, they found her whole and sound, and only a little cicatriced wound in her throat. Then they asked her in astonishment how she had lived in that dark, damp well all these years.
But she answered, ‘Every day there came to me a beautiful Roman matron in shining apparel, and she brought me food and consoled me, and after she had been there the well was bright, and sweet, and perfumed.’ And they knew that it must have been the Madonna.
As soon as she was thus restored to her parents, and had declared these things, San Giovanni Bocca d’oro died in peace, for God had forgiven him.
‘Ah! I knew so many of those things once, but now they are all gone, all gone.’ This was said by a fine old man, who boasted of having the same number of years and the same name as the Pope.
‘I dare say you can tell me something about San Giovanni Bocca d’oro, however,’ I said.
‘San Giovanni Bocca d’oro! Of course. Everybody in Rome knows about San Giovanni Bocca d’oro. Do you want to know about him? That’s not a story; that’s a fact.’
‘Yes, all you know about him I want to hear.’
‘It’s a long story—too long to remember.’
‘Never mind, tell me all you can recall.’
‘San Giovanni Bocca d’oro lived in a village—’
‘Not in Rome, then!’ interposed I.
‘Yes, yes, one of the villages about Rome; I don’t remember now which, if I ever knew, but about Rome of course. One day he saw a beautiful peasant girl, and fell in love with her. But he behaved very ill to her and never married her, and afterwards killed her and threw her body into a well.
‘Afterwards a great sorrow came upon him for what he had done, and he was so ashamed of his sin that he said he would remain no more to pollute other Christians with his presence, but went out into the Campagna and lived like a four-footed beast; and made a vow that he would remain with his face towards the earth1 until such time as God should be pleased to let him know, by the mouth of a little child, that His wrath was appeased.
‘Many years passed, and San Giovanni continued his penance without wearying, always on all fours.
‘One day, the nurse of some emperor or king was out with the little child she had charge of when a storm came on, and they ran and lost their way. Thus running, they came upon San Giovanni in his penance. He looked so wild and strange the nurse would have run away from him, but the child held out its arms towards him without being at all frightened, and, although so young that it had never spoken, cried aloud, “Giovanni, get up, God hath forgiven thee!”
‘At this voice all the people gathered round, and they took him back to the village; and he went straight to the well and blessed it, and there rose out of it, all whole and fresh, the maiden whom he had killed.
‘Then he sent for pen and tablet, for he had lost the use of speech, and wrote down all that had befallen him; and as he wrote all the letters became gold. That is why he is called San Giovanni Bocca d’oro.
‘And when he had written all these things he died in peace.’
In another version he was living an ordinary life in his ‘villa,’ not in a penitential cell, when the king’s daughter lost her way at the hunt. After the crime he was seized with compunction, and went out into the Campagna, living only on the herbs he could gather with his mouth, like an animal, and vowing that he would never again raise his head to Heaven till God gave him some token that He had forgiven him.
After eight years the king found him when out hunting, and, taking him for some kind of beast, put him in the stables. The little prince who was just born was taken by to the church to be baptised about this time; and, as they carried him back past the stables, he said aloud, ‘Rise, Giovanni, for God hath forgiven thy sins.’ Every one was very much astonished to hear him speak, and they sent for Giovanni and asked him to explain what it meant.
The rest as in the other versions.
[I have repeatedly come across this story, but without any material variation from one or other of the versions already given. It would be curious to trace how St. John Chrysostom’s name ever became connected with it. Though famous for his penitential life as much as for his eloquence, and though the four years he passed in the cells of the Antiochian cenobites were austere enough, yet his memory is stained by no sort of crime. So far from it, he was most carefully brought up by a widowed mother, whose exemplary virtues are said to have occasioned the exclamation from the Saint’s master, ‘What wonderful women have these Christians!’—Butler’s ‘Lives.’ There is something like its termination in that of ‘The Fiddler in Hell.’—Ralston’s ‘Russian Folk Tales,’ pp. 299, 300. The years of voluntary silence, and the finding of the silent person by a king out hunting, enter into many tales otherwise of another class, as in ‘Die Zwölf Brüder’ (the Twelve Brothers), Grimm, p. 37, and ‘Die Sechs Schwäne’ (the Six Swans), p. 191.]
We had another Giovanni who had done worse things even than these, and who never became a penitent at all. Don Giovanni he was called. Everybody in Rome knew him by the name of Don Giovanni.
Among the other bad things he did, he killed a great man who was called the Commendatore; and though he had the crime of murder on his conscience he took no account of it, but swaggered about with an air of bravado as if he cared for no one.
One day when he was walking out in the Campagna he saw a great white skeleton coming to meet him. It was the skeleton of the commendatore whom he had killed.
‘How dy’e do?’ said Don Giovanni, with effrontery. ‘There’s an Accademia1 to-night at my house, I shall be very happy to see you at it;’ and he took off his hat with mock gravity.
‘I will certainly come,’ replied the commendatore in a sepulchral voice; but Don Giovanni burst out laughing.
In the midst of the Accademia some one knocked. ‘All the guests are arrived,’ said the servant, ‘yet some one knocks.’
‘Never mind, open!’ replied Don Giovanni, carelessly. ‘Let him in whoever it is.’
The servant went to open, and came running back to say he could not let the new guest in because he was only the miller, who had come in his white coat all over flour.
All soon saw, however, that the guest was not the miller, though he looked so white. For it was the white skeleton of the commendatore; and it followed the servant into the room. Then fear seized on all and they ran away to hide themselves; some behind the door, some behind the curtains, and some under the table.
Don Giovanni stood alone in the middle of the room with his usual effrontery, and held out his hand to the skeleton.
‘Repent thee!’2 said the White Skeleton, solemnly.
‘A cavalier like me doesn’t repent like common beggars!’ replied Don Giovanni, scornfully.
‘Repent!’ again repeated the White Skeleton, with more awful emphasis.
‘I have something much more amusing to do!’ replied Don Giovanni, with a laugh.
‘Don Giovanni!’ cried the White Skeleton, the third time yet more solemnly. ‘Though you took away my life yet am I come to save your soul, if I may, and therefore I say again, Repent! or beware of what is to follow.’
‘Well done, old fellow! very generous of you!’ said Don Giovanni, with a mocking laugh, and again holding out his hand.
They were his last words. The next minute he gave an awful yell which might have been heard all over Rome. The White Skeleton had disappeared, and the Devil had come in his place, and had taken Don Giovanni by his extended hand and dragged him off.
[Tullio Dandolo, ‘Monachismo e Leggende’ p. 314–5, quotes a similar legend from Passavanti, ‘Specchio della vera Penitenza.’ The story of Don Giovanni’s misdeeds brought up in the narrator’s mind those of Pepe (Giuseppe) Mastrilo, famous in the annals of both Spanish and Italian bandits. It was, however, only a story of violence and crime without point.]
‘Can you tell me the story of San Giovanni Bocca d’oro?’
‘Of course I know about San Giovanni Bocca d’oro, that is, I know he was a great penitent, but I couldn’t remember anything, not to tell you about him. But I know about another great penitent. Do you know about the Penitence of San Giuliano? That is a story you’ll like if you don’t know it already; but it’s not a favola, mind.’
‘I know there are seven or eight saints at least of the name of Julian, but I don’t know the acts of them all; so pray tell me your story.’
‘Here it is then.
‘San Giuliano was the only son of his parents, who lived at Albano. In his youth he was rather wild,1 and gave his parents some anxiety; but what gave them more anxiety still on his account was that an astrologer had predicted that when he grew up he should kill both his parents.
‘“It is not only for our lives,” said the parents, “that we should be concerned—that is no such great matter; but we must put him out of the way of committing so great a crime.”
‘Therefore they gave him a horse, and his portion of money, and told him to ride forth and make himself a home in another place. So San Giuliano went forth; and thirty years passed, and his parents heard no more of him. Thirty years is a long time; many things pass out of mind in thirty years. Thus the astrologer’s prediction passed out of their minds; but what never passes out of the mind of a mother is the love of her child, and the mother of San Giuliano yearned to see him after thirty years as though he had gone away but yesterday.
‘One day when they were walking in the woods about Albano they saw a little boy come and climb into a tree and take a bird’s nest; and presently, after the little boy was gone away with the nest, the parent birds came back and fluttered all about, and uttered piercing cries for the loss of their young.
‘“See!” said San Giuliano’s mother, taking occasion by this example, “how these unreasoning creatures care for the loss of their young, and we live away from our only son and are content.”
‘“By no means are we content,” replied the father; “let us therefore rise now and go seek him.”
‘So they put on pilgrims’ weeds, and wandered forth to seek their son. On and on they went till they came to a place, a city called Galizia;2 and there, as they walk along weary, they meet a gentle lady, who looks upon them mildly and compassionately, and says, “Whence do you come, poor pilgrims? what a long way you must have travelled!”3
‘And they, cheered by her mode of address and sympathy, make answer, “We have wandered over mountains and plains. We come from the mountain town of Albano. We go about seeking our son Giuliano.”4
‘“Giuliano!” exclaimed the lady, “is the name of my husband. Just now he is out hunting, but come in with me and receive my hospitality for love of his name.” She took them home and washed their feet, and refreshed them, and set food before them, and ultimately gave them her own bed to sleep in.
‘But the Devil came to Giuliano out hunting, and tempted him with jealous thoughts about his wife, and tormented him with all manner of calumnious insinuations, so that his mind was filled with fury. Coming home hunting-knife in hand, he rushed into the bedroom, and seeing two forms in bed, without waiting to know who they were, he plunged his knife into them, and killed them.
‘Thus, without knowing it, he had killed both his father and his mother.
‘Coming out of the room he met his wife, who came to seek him to welcome him.
‘“What, you here!” he cried. “Who then are those in the bed, whom I have killed?”
‘“Killed!” replied the wife, “they were a pilgrim couple to whom I gave hospitality for love of you, because they wandered seeking a son named Giuliano.” Then Giuliano knew what he had done, and was seized with penitence for his hasty yielding to suspicion and anger. So stricken with sorrow was he, he was as one dead, nor could anyone move him to speak. Then his wife came to him and said, “We will do penance together; we will lay aside ease and riches, and will devote ourselves to the poor and needy.”
‘And he embraced her and said, “It is well spoken.”
‘Near where they lived was a rapid river, and no bridge, and many were drowned in attempting to cross it, and many had a weary way to walk to find a bridge. Said Giuliano, “We will build a bridge over the river.” And many pilgrims came to Galizia who had not where to rest. Said Giuliano, “We will build a hospice for poor pilgrims, where they may be received and be tended according to their needs, till God forgives me.”
‘So they set forth, Giuliano and his wife, to go to Rome to find workmen.5 But as they went, a troop met them, and came round them, and said to them, “Where are you going?”
‘“We go to Rome,” answered Giuliano, “to find workmen to build a bridge.”
‘“We are your men, we are your men; for we have built many bridges ere now.”6
‘Then Giuliano took them back with him, and all in two days they built the bridge.
‘“How can this be?” said Giuliano’s wife; “here is something that is not right,” for she was so holy that she discerned the Evil One was in it.
‘“Be sure, Giuliano,” she said, “there is some snare here. Take, therefore, a cheese, hard and round, and roll it along the bridge,7 and send our dog after it; if they get across, well and good.”
‘Giuliano, always prone to accept his wife’s prudent counsel, did as she bid him, and rolled the cheese along the bridge, and sent the dog after it; and, see! no sooner were they in the middle of the bridge than the bridge sank in; and they knew that the Devil had built it, and that it was no bridge for Christians to go over.
‘Then said Giuliano, “God has not forgiven me yet. Now, let us build the hospice.”
‘They set out, therefore, to go to Rome to find workmen to build the hospice; and when the troop of demons came round them, saying, “We are your workmen, we are your workmen!” they paid them no heed, but went on to Rome, and fetched workmen thence, and the hospice was built; and all the pilgrims who came they received, and gave them hospitality, and the whole house was full of pilgrims.
‘Then, when the house was full, quite full of pilgrims, there came an old man, and begged admission. “Good man,” said Giuliano’s wife, “it grieves my heart to say so, but there is not a bed, nor so much as an empty corner left;” and the old man said:
‘“If ye cannot receive me, it is because ye have done so much charity to me already; therefore take this staff:” so he gave them his pilgrim’s staff, and went his way.
‘But it was Jesus Christ who came in the semblance of that old man; and when Giuliano took the staff, behold three flowers blossomed on it, and he said:
[Now I see this story in type I am inclined to think it is not strictly traditional, like the rest; but that the narrator had acquired it from one of the rimed legends mentioned at p. vii.]
1 ‘Discolo,’ ‘wild,’ ‘fast.’ ↑
2 The shrine of S. Iago di Compostella being traditionally known to the Roman poor as ‘S. Giacomo di Galizia,’ Galizia was not very unnaturally supposed by the narrator to be the name of a town. ↑
‘Dovene siete, poveri pellegrini,
Quanti son’ lunghi i vostri cammini?’
‘Avemo camminati monti e piani,
E siamo di Castello mont’ Albano,
Andiamo cercando un figlio Giuliano.’
A walled village, whether it had an actual castle or not, had the name of ‘Castello;’ and ‘Castello’ is the common name to the present day in Rome for the villages in the neighbourhood. ↑
‘Noi siamo i mastri! noi siamo i mastri!
Chè tanti ponti abbiamo fatti.’
7 ‘Arruzzicatelo’ was the word used. Ruzzica is a game played by rolling circles of wood of a certain thickness along a smooth alley. She tells him to roll the cheese in this way as an inducement to the dog to go over to try the strength of the bridge. ↑
There was a husband and wife, who had been married two or three years, and had no children. At last, they made a vow to S. Giacomo di Galizia that if they only had two children, one boy and one girl, even if no more than that, they would be so grateful that they would go a pilgrimage to his shrine, all the way to Galizia.
In due time two children were born to them, a boy and a girl, who were twins; and they were full of gladness and rejoicing, and devoted themselves to the care of their children, but they forgot all about their vow. When many years were passed, and the children were, it maybe, fifteen or sixteen years old, they dreamed a dream, both husband and wife in one night, that St. James appeared, and said:
‘You made a vow to visit my shrine if you had two children. Two children have been born to you, and you have not kept your vow; most certainly evil will overtake you for your broken word. Behold, time is given you; but if now you fulfil not your vow, both your children will die.’
In the morning the wife told the dream to the husband, and the husband told the dream to the wife, and they said to each other, ‘This is no common dream; we must look to it.’ So they bought pilgrims’ dresses, and went to ‘Galizia,’ the husband, and wife, and the son; but concerning the daughter they said, ‘The maiden is of too tender years for this journey, let her stay with her nurse;’ and they left her in the charge of the nurse and the parish priest. But that priest was a bad man—for it will happen that a priest may be bad sometimes; and, instead of leading her right, he wanted her to do many bad things, and when she would not listen to him, he wrote false letters to her parents about her, and gave a report of her conduct to shock her parents. When the brother saw these letters of the priest concerning his sister, he was indignant with her, and, without waiting for his parents’ advice, went back home quickly, and killed her with his dagger, and threw her body into a ditch. But he went back to the shrine of St. James to live in penance.
Not long had her body lain in the ditch when a king’s son came by hunting, and the dogs scented the blood of a Christian lying in the ditch, and bayed over it till the huntsmen came and took out the body; when they saw it was the body of a fair maiden, yet warm, they showed it to the prince, and the prince when he saw the maiden, loved her, and took her to a convent to be healed of her wound, and afterwards married her; and when his father died, he was king and she became a queen.
But her father and mother, hearing only that her brother had killed her and thrown her body in the ditch, and supposing she was dead, said one to the other, ‘Why should we go back home, seeing that our daughter is dead? What have we to go home for? There is nothing but sorrow for us there.’ So they remained at the shrine of St. James, and built a hospice for poor pilgrims, and tended them.
Meantime the daughter, who had become a queen, she also had two children, a boy and a girl, and her husband rejoiced in them and in her. But troubled times came, and her husband had to go forth to battle, and while she was left without him in the palace, the viceroy came to her and wanted her to do wrong, and when she would not listen to him, he took her two children and killed them before her eyes. ‘What do I here,’ said she, ‘seeing my two children are dead?’ And she took the bodies of her children and went forth. When she had wandered long by solitary places, she came one day to a mountain, and at the foot of the mountain sat a dwarf,1 and the dwarf had compassion when he saw how she was worn with crying, and he said to her, ‘Go up the mountain and be consoled.’ Thus she went up the mountain till she saw a majestic woman, with an infant in her arms; and this was the Madonna, you must know.2
When she saw a woman like herself, with a child too, for all that she looked so bright and majestic, she was consoled; and she poured all her story into her ear. ‘And I would go to S. Giacomo di Galizia to ask that my husband’s love may be restored to me, for I know the viceroy will calumniate me to him; but how can I leave these children?’ Then the lady said, ‘Leave your children with me, and they shall be with my child, and go you to Galizia as you have said, and be consoled.’ So she put on pilgrim’s weeds, and went to Galizia.
Meantime the king came back from battle, and the viceroy told him evil about the queen; and his mother, who also believed the viceroy, said, ‘Did I not tell you a woman picked up is never good for anything?’3 But the king was grieved, for he had loved the queen dearly, and he took a pilgrim’s dress and went to Galizia, to the shrine of S. Giacomo, to pray that she might be forgiven. Then the viceroy, he too was seized with compunction, and, unknown to the king, he too became a pilgrim, and went to do penance at the same shrine.
Thus it happened that they all met together, without knowing each other, in the hospice that that husband and wife had built at Galizia; and when they had paid their devotions at the shrine, and all sat together in the hospice in the evening, all told some tale of what he had seen and what he had heard. But there sat one who told nothing. Then said the king to this one, ‘And you, good man, why do you tell no story?’ for he knew not that it was the queen, nor that it was even a woman.
Thus appealed to, however, she rose and told a tale of how there had been a husband and wife who had made a vow that if they had children, they would go a pilgrimage to S. Giacomo di Galizia; ‘and,’ said she, ‘they were just two people such as you might be,’ and she pointed to the two who were founders of the hospice. And that when they were absent, and left their daughter behind, the parish priest calumniated her, so that her brother came back and stabbed her, and threw her body in a ditch. ‘And he was just such a young man, strong and ardent, as you may have been,’ and she pointed to the son of the founders. ‘But that maiden was not dead,’ she went on, ‘and a king found her, and married her, and she had two children, and lived happily with him till he went to the wars, then the viceroy calumniated her till she ran away out of the palace; and the viceroy was just such a one, strong and dark, as you may be,’ and she pointed to the viceroy, who sat trembling in a corner; ‘and when the king came back, he told him evil of her; but that king was noble and pious as you may be,’ and she pointed to the king, ‘and in his heart he believed no evil of his wife, but went to S. Giacomo di Galizia to pray that the truth might be made plain.’
As she spoke, one after another they all arose, and said, ‘How comes this peasant to know all the story of my life; and who has sent him to declare it here!’ and they were all strangely moved, and called upon the peasant to tell them who had shown him these things. But the supposed peasant answered, ‘My old grandfather, as we sat on the hearth together.’4 ‘That cannot be,’ said they, ‘for to every one of us you have told his own life; and now you must tell us more, for we will not rest till we have righted her who has thus suffered.’ When she found them so earnest and so determined to do right, she said further, ‘That queen am I!’ and she took off her hood, and they knew her, and all fell round and embraced her. Then said the king, ‘And on this viceroy, on whose account you have suffered so sadly, what vengeance will you have on him?’ But she said, ‘I will have no vengeance; but now that he has come to the shrine of Galizia, God will forgive him; and may he find peace!’
Thus all were restored and united; and when she had embraced her parents and her brother, and spent some days with them, she went home with her husband and reigned in his kingdom.
[The story seemed to be ended, and I hoped it was, for the way in which the children were left seemed a poetic way of describing their death; but to make sure, I said, ‘And the children, they remained with the Madonna?’
‘No, no! I forgot. It’s well you reminded me. No; by their way home they went back to the mountain, and they found their children well cared for by that “Majestic Lady,” and playing with her Bambino; she gave the children back, and blessed them, and then went up to heaven; and they built a chapel in the place where she had been.’]
1 ‘Uomicino,’ a little man. As the narrator had come to the borders of Wonderland, this must, I think, be taken to be one of those dwarfs—little men of the mountains, ‘Bergmänlein,’ who have so large a place in German, especially in Tirolean mythology, but are so rarely to be met in that of Rome. ↑
2 ‘Una donna maestosa con un bambino in braccia; e questa era la Madonna, capisce.’ This use of the verb capire to express ‘you see,’ &c., is a favourite Romanism; in Tuscany they use the verb intendere. ↑
3 ‘Donna trovata non fu mai buona.’ ↑
4 ‘Il nonno accanto al fuoco.’ Giving to understand that it was an old traditionary tale. ↑
There was a man with a general shop who had an excellent girl for a servant, and she was so honest as well as diligent that he left her to attend to the shop besides doing the work. All he gave her to do she did well, and his business flourished without his having any trouble about it.
But some envious people came to him and said that the girl had given away all his substance, and there was nothing left; so he watched, and he saw it was indeed so. To every poor person who came she gave whatever they asked for the love of God, and all the stores and presses were empty. Yet, as there seemed no lack of anything either, and when customers came she always continued to supply them, he hesitated to interfere.
So it might have gone on, only people went on whispering doubts. And one said one day, ‘Suppose she should die, where would you be then?’ That is true, he thought to himself, and upon that he went and asked her where all the things were gone. She never made any reply, but knelt down and prayed, and as she prayed all the presses and stores became full again with all kinds of merchandise as at the first. But she went away from him after that, and built herself a cell, walled up all round, next to the church of St. Anthony, where she lived in continual prayer, and she took a brick out of the wall to make a hole through which she heard mass. At last one day came when they saw her no more at the hole hearing mass, and they opened her cell and found her lying on the floor with her hands crossed on her breast, and the cell was filled with a beautiful perfume, for she had been sanctified there, and her soul had gone thence to God.
[This seems very like another version of the foregoing.]
St. Isidor was the steward of a rich man, and as he was filled with holy piety and compassion, he could never turn away from any that begged of him, but gave to all liberally; to one Indian corn meal, to another beans, to another lentils.
At last men with envious tongues came to his master and said: ‘This steward of yours of whom you think so much is wasting all your substance, and he has given away so much to the poor that there can be nothing left in any of your barns and storehouses; you had better look to it.’ The master, after hearing this, came down to St. Isidor very angry, and bade him bring the keys and open all the barns and storehouses. St. Isidor did as he was bid without an angry word, and behold they were all so full of grain and beans, and every species of good gift of God, that you could not go into them, they were full to the very doors. After that the master let him give away as much as he would.
[I have heard the same at Siena told of San Gherardo, or Gheraldo as the people call him, under the character of a Franciscan laybrother. He seemed to give away all the provisions people gave him in alms for the convent, but when the Superior, warned by envious tongues, chid him, he showed that there remained over more than sufficient for the needs of the community.]
St. Francis had a little fishpond, where he kept some gold and silver fish as a pastime.
Some bad people wanted to vex him, and they went and caught these poor little fish and fried them, and sent them up to him for dinner.
But St. Francis when he saw them knew that they were his gold fish, and made the sign of the cross over them, and blessed them, and soon they became alive again, and he took them and put them back into the fishpond, and no one durst touch them again after that.