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 anyone 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 anyone. 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 deathbed! 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 everyone if the Pope were to die,” thought she, as she wandered farther up the street.
When she observed that many of the passersby 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
