I have only recently become acquainted with the book 'The Hidden Servants and other very old stories - told over again by Francesca Alexander', and published by David Nutt, at the Sign of the Phoenix, Long Acre, London, in 1911, in which is a collection of Italian legends sourced over many centuries, and re-presented in poetic form by Francesca Alexander, author and artist, born in the U.S.A., who at the age of 16 years moved with her father, a portrait painter, and her mother, a wealthy philanthropist, to Italy, settling in Florence for the rest of her life.
In the Preface to this book, Anna Fuller quotes from a letter she received from Francesca Alexander, regarding the sources of the legends, written with no thought of publication, but as it were, from the heart. This is what Francesca wrote: -
"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 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.
**************
'This beautiful legend Has for me a most peculiar interest, owing to the circumstances under which I first heard it. It was taught to me by a very dear young friend whom I had known and loved from his infancy, -- Piero, the only surviving child of Count Giuseppe Zanelli of Faenza. It was only last October -- eight months ago -- and we were all staying together in the home of his beloved and still beautiful grandmother, at Bassano, in the Veneto. It was the last evening that we expected to pass together, and Pierino (we had never been able to give up calling him by that childish diminutive) brought a book with him, a collection of popular legends compiled by De Gubernatis, and said that he had a story to read us. It was "The Crosses on the Wall", and it has always seemed to me as though he read it on that particular evening to prepare us for what was to come. For some months he had been not quite so strong as usual, yet no one felt any particular apprehension, until on the twenty-eighth of November he died, almost without warning. He was twenty-two years old, of a very beautiful character, -- so good that we ought to have known he was not for us. With him two great and ancient families come to an end, --- the Pasolini-Zanelli of Faenza, and the Baroni-Semitecolo of Bassano: these last are the only descendants of that Semitecolo who worked in mosaic at Torcello.'
Francesco Alexander
************
The Crosses
on the Wall
A Legend
of Primiero
Come, children, listen to
what I tell,
For my words are wise
today:
From Primiero among the
hills
Was the legend brought away.
And Primiero among the
hills
Is a little world apart,
Where is much to love and
much to learn,
If you have a willing
heart.
It lies on high, like a
stranded ship,
From the parted wave of
time;
Not far from the troubled
world we know,
But the way is hard to
climb.
For the mountains rise and
close it in,
With their walls of green
and gray;
With crag and forest and
smooth-worn cliff,
Where the clouds alone can
stray.
And when a house they have
builded there,
If a blessing they would
win,
Above the door do they
write a prayer,
That Christ may dwell
therein.
And I think, throughout
the ancient town,
On its steep ascending
road,
In many a heart, in many a
home,
Has He taken His abode.
And when a burden is hard
to bear –
And such burdens come to
all –
They tell the story I’m
telling now,
Of the crosses on the
wall.
‘T is a pearl of wisdom,
gathered far
In the dim and distant
past;
But ever needed, but ever
new,
As long as the world shall
last.
For never has been since
earth was made,
And surely shall never be,
A man so happy or wise or
great,
He might from the cross be
free.
The tale it is of a widow
poor,
And by trouble sorely
pressed;
Of how, through sorrow and
many tears,
At the end her soul was blest.
She had not been always
poor and sad,
For her early years were
bright,
With a happy home, and
with parents kind,
And herself their hearts’
delight!
A mother’s darling, a
father’s pride,
She was fair in form and
face;
A sunny creature, a joy to
all,
For her sweet and winning
grace.
Then, early married to one
she loved,
She had still been
shielded well;
For her he laboured, for
her he thought,
And on her no burden fell.
She worked, indeed; but
what work was hers
Through the short and
happy hours?
To pluck the fruit from
her orchard trees,
Or to tend the garden
flowers;
To sit and spin, and to
sing the while
In her porch with roses
gay;
To spread the table with
plenty piled,
And to watch the children
play.
Their home was a little
nest of peace;
‘T was a mile beyond the
town,
In that sheltered valley,
green with woods,
Where the river murmurs
down.
And she never dreamt of
change to come,
(Though a change must all
expect,)
Till the blow, like
lightning, on her fell,
And her happy life was
wrecked.
But who could have thought
the man would die?
There were few so strong
as he!
From his forest work they
bore him home,
Struck dead by a falling
tree.
A petted child, and a wife
beloved,
She had hardly sorrow
known,
Till the strong, brave man
was borne away,
And she faced the world
alone.
Alone, with a babe too
young to speak,
And with other children five:
“Oh, why,” she asked, “are
the strong removed
And the feeble left alive?”
But where is the good of
asking why,
When our helpers disappear?
That question never was
answered yet,
And it never will be,
here.
There was little time to
sit and weep;
She must rise, and bear
the strain;
Alone she stood, with the
home to keep,
And the children’s bread
to gain.
The best of herself had
gone with him;
She had no more faith nor
trust:
She could not bow to the
Lord’s decree,
For she felt it all
unjust.
The good Lord cares for a
widow’s need,
But on Him she did not
call.
She laboured hard, and she
fought with fate,
And they lived – but that
was all.
She fought her battle with
fate, and failed,
As many have failed before;
If against the thorns we push
and press,
They will only prick the
more.
She could not bear with
the children now,
And she called them rude
and wild;
Forgetting quite, in her
sullen grief,
That she had been once a
child.
Yes, wild they were; and
like all wild things
They were light and swift
and strong;
And her poor, sick spirit
turned away
From the gay, unruly
throng.
They swam the river, they
climbed the trees,
They were full of life and
play;
But oft, when their mother’s
voice they heard,
They hid from her sight
away.
They did not love her, and
that she knew,
And of that she oft
complained;
But not by threats nor by
angry words
Could the children’s love
be gained.
Respect and honour we may
command;
They will come at duties
call:
But love, the beautiful
thornless rose,
Grows wild, when it grows
at all.
And she grew bitter, as
time went on,
Grew bitter and hard and
sore,
Till one day she cried in
her despair,
“I can bear my life no
more!
“Look down from Heaven,
good Lord, and see
And pity my cruel fate!
Oh, come, and in mercy
take away
My burden, for ‘t is too
great!
“My heart is breaking with
all its load,
And I feel my life decline;
Never I think did the
woman live
Who has borne a cross like
mine!”
To her cry for help an
answer came,
And solemn it was, and strange!
For a silence deep around
her fell,
And the place seemed all
to change.
She stood in a sad and sombre room,
Where from ceiling down to floor,
Along the wall and on
every side,
There were crosses –
nothing more.
There were crosses old,
and crosses new,
There were crosses large
and small;
And in their midst there
was One who stood
As the Master of them all.
Before His presence her
eyes dropped low,
And her wild complaining
died;
For she knew the cross
that He had borne
Was greater than all
beside.
And He bade her choose,
and take away,
From among the many there,
Another cross, in exchange
for hers,
That she found too great
to bear.
She looked for those that
were least in size,
And she quickly lifted one;
But oh, ‘t was heavy, and
pained her more
Than her own had ever
done!
She laid it back with a
trembling hand –
“And whose cross is that?”
she cried;
“For heavier ‘t is than
even mine!”
And a solemn voice
replied:
“That cross belongs to a
maiden young,
But of youth she little
knows;
For the days to her are
days of pain,
And the night brings scant
repose.
“A helpless, suffering,
useless thing!
And her pain will never
cease,
Till death in pity will
come one day,
And her troubles end in
peace.
“She never has walked the
pleasant fields,
Nor has sat beneath the
trees;
The hospital wall that
shuts her in
Is the only world she sees.
“She has no mother, she
has no home,
And in strangers’ hands
she lies;
With none to care for her
while she lives,
Nor weep for her when she
dies.”
“But why is the cross so
small, my Lord,
And why does her heart not
break?”
“She counts it little,”
the answer came,
“For she bears it for my
sake.”
The widow blushed with a
sudden shame;
To her eyes the tears
arose:
She dried them soon, and
again she turned,
And another cross she
chose.
It fell from her hand
against the wall,
And she let it there
remain:
“That cross shall never be
mine,” she said,
“Though I take my own
again!
“And whose is this that I
cannot hold?
For it seems to burn my
hand!
And never, I think, was
heart so strong
That could such a weight
withstand.”
“The cross it is of a
gentle wife,
And she wears it all
unseen;
With early sorrow her hair
is white,
But she keeps a smile
serene.
“She gave her heart to an
evil man,
And she thought him good
and true;
And long she trusted and
long believed,
But at last the truth she
knew.
“She knows that his soul is
stained with crime,
But the worst she still
conceals;
Abuse and terror her sole
reward,
And the lord knows what
she feels!
“She cannot leave him, for
love dies hard,
And her children bear his
name;
But she prays for grace,
to keep and guard
Their innocent lives from
shame.
“She trembles oft when his
step she hears
On a lonely winter night;
And she hides her
frightened babes afar
From their cruel father’s
sight.
“And she dares not even
hope for death,
Though his hand might set
her free:
‘T were well for her in
the grave to rest;
But where would the
children be?”
The widow shuddered, her
face grew pale,
And she no more turned to
look:
She reached her hand to
the wall near by,
And a cross by chance she
took.
‘T was not so large as the
first had been,
But it seemed a fearful
weight!
“And whose am I holding
now?” she asked,
For it did not look so
great.
“A mother’s cross is the
one you bear,”
So the voice in answer
said,
“And she once had children
six like you;
But her children all are
dead.
“She has all besides that
earth can give;
She has friends and wealth
to spare,
And house and land – but she
counts them not,
For the children are not
there.
“Time passes slowly, and
she grows old;
But she may not yet depart.
In lonely splendour she
counts the years,
With an empty, hungry
heart.
“And she knows by whom the
cross was sent,
And she tries her head to
bow;
But six green mounds by
the churchyard wall
Are the most she cares for
now.”
The widow thought of her
own wild brood,
And she felt a creeping
chill:
And, “Oh give me back my
cross!” she said,
“I will keep and bear it
still.
“Forgive me, Lord” (and
with that she knelt,
And for very shame she
wept).
“I know my sin, that I
could not bow,
Nor Thy holy will accept.
“Oh, give me patience, for
life is hard;
And the daily strength I
need!
And by Thy grace I will
try to bear
The burden for me decreed.
“I’ll change my ways with
the children now,
Though they give me added
cares.
Poor babes! I know, if
they love me not,
That the blame is mine,
not theirs!”
She kept her word as the
weeks went on,
And she fought with fate
no more:
‘T was now with a patient,
humble heart
That her daily cross she
bore.
The children wondered to
see her change
So greatly in look and
speech!
She met them now with a
smile so kind,
And a gentle word for
each.
And soon they learned,
from her altered ways,
What her words had vainly
taught;
Their love, that long she
had claimed in vain,
Came back to her all
unsought.
There were merry shouts
and dancing feet,
When the mother came in
sight;
There were little arms
around her thrown,
There were eyes with joy
alight.
With love for teacher,
they learnt to help,
There was work for fingers
small:
Her heart grew soft like
the earth in spring,
And she thanked the Lord
for all!
Her girls so pretty, her
boys so brave,
And so helpful all and
kind!
She wondered often, and
thought with shame
Of how she had once
repined.
For in their presence she
oft forgot
Her burden of want and
care,
Forgot her trouble –
forgot, almost,
That she had a cross to
bear!
1 comment:
Like this, thanks.
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