Then she, too, laughed and said: “You are quite right. It doesn’t pay to pretend before the good Lord.”
When the Pope was taken ill, Signora Concenza must also have a share in the general grief. Of her own accord it certainly never would have occurred to her to feel troubled about his passing. But when her son came home to her, she could neither persuade him to taste of a morsel of food nor to give her a smile, although she was simply bubbling over with stories and interpolations. Naturally she became alarmed and asked what was wrong with him. “The Holy Father is ill,” answered the son.
At first she could scarcely believe that this was the cause of his downheartedness. Of course it was a sorrow; but she knew, to be sure, that if a Pope died, immediately there would come another. She reminded her son of the fact that they had also mourned the good Pio Nono. And, you see, the one who succeeded him was a still greater Pope. Surely the Cardinals would choose for them a ruler who was just as holy and wise as this one.
The priest then began telling her about the Pope. He didn’t bother to initiate her into his system of government, but he told her little stories of his childhood and young manhood. And from the days of his prelacy there were also things to relate—as, for instance, how he had at one time hunted down robbers in southern Italy, how he had made himself beloved by the poor and needy during the years when he was a bishop in Perugia.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she cried out: “Ah, if he were not so old! If he might only be allowed to live many more years, since he is such a great and holy man!”
“Ah, if only he were not so old!” sighed the son.
But Signora Concenza had already brushed the tears from her eyes. “You really must bear this calmly,” said she. “Remember that his years of life are simply run out. It is impossible to prevent death from seizing him.”
The priest was a dreamer. He loved the Church and had dreamed that the great Pope would lead her on to important and decisive victories. “I would give my life if I could purchase new life for him!” said he.
“What are you saying?” cried his mother. “Do you really love him so much? But, in any case, you must not express such dangerous wishes. Instead, you should think of living a good long time. Who knows what may happen? Why couldn’t you, in your turn, become Pope?”
A night and a day passed without any improvement in the Pope’s condition. When Signora Concenza met her son the following day, he looked completely undone. She understood that he had passed the whole day in prayer and fasting, and she began to feel deeply grieved. “I verily believe that you mean to kill yourself for the sake of that sick old man!” said she.
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 anyone 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. “Tonight 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
