‘Suora
Marianna’
Translated from the Italian by Francesca
Alexander
Little children, will you listen to a simple tale of
mine,
That I learned at San Marcello, in the Tuscan
Apennine,
From an aged, saintly woman, gone to heaven long ago?
It has helped me on my journey, and as yet you cannot
know
Half the wisdom stored within it, nor the comfort it
can give;
But still, try and not forget it! You will need it if
you live,
And some day, when life is waning and your hands begin
to tire,
You will think of Marianna, and her vision by the
fire.
In a convent, old and quiet, near a little country
town,
On a chestnut-shaded hillside, to the river sloping
down,
Dwelt a few of those good sisters who go out among the
poor,
Who must labour late and early, and much weariness
endure.
And the one who did in patience and in all good works
excel,
Was the Sister Marianna, she whose story now I tell.
She was ever kind and willing, for each heavy task
prepared:
No one ever thought to spare her, and herself she
never spared.
All unpraised and all unnoticed, bearing burdens not
her own,
Yet she lived as rich and happy as a queen upon her
throne!
She was rich, though few would think it; for God gave
her grace to choose,
Not the world’s deceitful riches, but the wealth one
cannot lose.
There are many heap up treasure, but it is not every
one
Who will take his treasure with him when his earthly
life is done.
Was she beautiful? I know not. She had eyes of peaceful light,
And her face looked sweet and blooming in its frame of
linen white.
To the sick and heavy-hearted she was pleasant to
behold,
And she seemed a heavenly vision to the feeble and the
old.
She was happy when she wandered up the wandering
mountain road,
Bearing food and warmth and blessing to some desolate
abode,
Though the ice-cold winds were blowing, and her
woman’s strength was tried;
For she knew who walked there with her, in her heart
and by her side.
She was happy - oh, so happy! -in her little
whitewashed cell,
Looking out among the branches, where they gave her
leave to dwell,
In her scanty hours of leisure; for there, looking
from the wall,
Were the dear and holy faces that she loved the best
of all.
‘T was an old and faded picture, poorly painted at the
best,
Of Our Lord, the Holy Infant, in His Mother’s arms at
rest.
But her faith and loving fancy had a glory to it lent,
And the faces that she saw there were not what the
artist meant.
And the wooden shelf before it she would often-times
adorn
With the buttercup and bluebell, and the wild rose
from the thorn,
Which she gathered, when returning, while the morning
dew was bright,
From some home, remote and lonely, where she watched
the sick by night.
So her life was full of sunshine, for in toiling for
the Lord
She had found the hidden sweetness that in common
things lies stored:
He has strewn the earth with flowers, and each eye
their brightness sees;
But He filled their cups with honey, for His humble
working bees.
But there came a time--poor sister--when her rosy
cheek grew pale,
And her eyes, with all their sunlight, seemed to smile
as through a veil;
And her step was weak and heavy, as she trod the steep
ascent,
Where through weeks of wintry weather to her loving
work she went.
‘T was a footpath, lone and narrow, winding up among
the trees,
And ‘t was hard to trace in winter, when the slippery
ground would freeze,
And the snow fall thick above it, hiding every sight
and mark;
But she went that way so often she could climb it in
the dark!
‘T was to nurse a poor young mother, by fierce malady
assailed,
That she made the daily journey, and she never once
had failed.
Now the short sharp days were over, and the spring had
just begun;
Every morn the light came sooner, and more strength
was in the sun.
All around the grass was springing, and its tender
verdure spread,
Mid the empty burrs of chestnuts, and the old leaves,
brown and dead,
Low and small, but creeping, creeping till it almost
touched the edge
Of the daily lessening snowdrifts, under rock or
thorny hedge.
And the buds were crowding upward, though as yet the
flowers were few.
Many nights had she been watching, and with little
rest by day,
For her heart was in the chamber where that helpless
woman lay;
There the flame of life she cherished, when it almost
ceased to burn,
Praying God to help and keep them till the husband
should return.
‘T was the old and common story, such as all of us can
hear,
If we care to, in the mountains, every day throughout
the year!
She who languished, weak and wasting, in the garret
chamber there,
Had been once as strong and happy as the wild birds in
the air.
She had been a country beauty, for the boys to
serenade;
And the poets sang about her, in the simple rhymes
they made,
And with glowing words compared her to the lilies as
they grew,
Or to stars, or budding roses, as their manner is to
do.
Then the man who played at weddings with his ancient
violin,
With his sad, impassioned singing, had contrived her
heart to win;
And one brilliant April morning he had brought her
home, a bride,
To his farm and low-built cottage on the mountain’s
terraced side.
‘T was a poor, rough home to look at, and from
neighbours far away,
But with love and health and music there was much to
make it gay.
They were happy, careless people, and they thought not
to complain,
Though the door were cracked and broken, or the roof
let in the rain:
They could pile the fire with branches, while the
winter storms swept by;
For the rest, their life was mostly out beneath the
open sky.
Time had come, and brought its changes, sunshine first,
and then the shade,
Frost untimely, chestnuts blighted. Sickness came, and debts were made;
Fields were sold, alas, to pay them; yet their
troubles did not cease,
And the poor man’s heart was troubled thus to see his
land decrease!
Fields were gone, and bread was wanting, for there now
were children small;
Much he loved them, much he laboured ---but he could
not feed them all.
So he left them, heavy hearted, and his fortune went
to try
In the low Maremma country, where men gain or where
they die,
With its soft and treacherous beauty, with its
fever-laden air;
But as yet the fever spared him, and they hoped it yet
would spare.
‘T was a long and cruel winter in the home he left
behind:
Lonely felt the house without him, and the young wife
moped and pined:
Still her children’s love sustained her, till this
sickness laid her low;
When good Sister Marianna came to nurse her, as you
know.
Week on week had hope been waning, as more feeble
still she grew:
Marianna tried, but vainly, every simple cure she
knew.
Then the doctor gave up hoping, and his long
attendance ceased:
“I can do no more,” he told her; “you had better call
the priest.
To her husband I have written; he will have the news
today:
If he cares again to see her, he had
best be on his way!”
Now the priest has done his office; at the open door
he stands,
And he says to Marianna: “I can leave her in your
hands,
I have other work that calls me; if tonight she chance
to die,
You can say the prayers, good sister, for her soul as
well as I.”
So they left her, all unaided, in the house forlorn
and sad,
Still to watch and think and labour with what failing
strength she had.
There was none to share her burden, none to speak to,
none to see --
Save a helpful boy of seven, and a restless one of
three,
And their little dark-eyed sister (she was five, and
came between),
And a baby, born that winter, which the father had not
seen.
Two days more!
Her friend lay sleeping, and she watched beside the bed:
In her arms she rocked the baby, while the Latin
prayers she said,
Prayers to help a soul departing -- yet she never
quite despaired!
Might not yet the Lord have pity, and that mother’s
life be spared?
‘T was so hard to see her going --- and such a mother,
kind and dear!
There was ne’er another like her in the country, far
or near!
(So thought Sister Marianna.) Yet to murmur were a sin.
But her tears kept rising, rising, though she tried to
hold them in,
Till one fell and lay there shining, on the head that
she caressed,
Small and pretty, dark and downy, lying warm against
her breast.
She was silent; something moved her that had neither
place nor part
In the grave and stately cadence of the prayers she
knew by heart.
Then she spoke, with eyes dilated, with her soul in
every word,
As to one she saw before her--- “Thou hast been a
child, my Lord!
Thou hast lain as small and speechless as this infant
on my knees;
Thou hast stretched toward Thy Mother little helpless
hands like these:
Thou hast known the wants of children, then---Oh
listen to my plea,
For one moment, Lord, remember what Thy Mother was to
Thee!
Think, when all was dark around Thee, how her love did
Thee enfold.
How she tended, how she watched Thee; how she wrapped
Thee from the cold!
How her gentle heart was beating, on that night of
tears and strife,
When the cruel guards pursued Thee, when King Herod
sought Thy life!
How her arms enclosed and hid Thee, through that
midnight journey wild!
Oh, for love of Thine own Mother, save the mother of
this child!”
Now she paused and waited breathless; for she seemed
to know and feel
That the Lord was there and listened to her passionate
appeal.
Then she bowed her head, all trembling; but a light
was in her eye,
For her soul had heard the answer: that young mother
would not die!
Yes, the prayer of faith had saved her! And a change
began that day:
When she woke her breath was easy, and the pain had
passed away.
So the day that dawned so sadly had a bright and
hopeful close,
And a solemn, sweet thanksgiving from the sister’s
heart arose.
Now the night had closed around them, and a lonesome
night it seemed!
For the sky was black and starless, and for hours the
rain had streamed:
And the wind and rain together made a wild and
mournful din,
As they beat on door and window, madly struggling to
come in.
Marianna, faint and weary with the strain of many days,
On the broad stone hearth was kneeling, while she set
the fire ablaze,
For the poor lone soul she cared for would, ere
morning, need to eat.
“Now, God help me,” said the sister, “this night’s
labour to complete!”
‘T was a meal she knew would please her, which she
lovingly prepared,
Of that best and chosen portion, from the convent
table spared,
Which she brought, as was her habit, with much other
needed store,
In the worn old willow basket, standing near her on
the floor.
On her work was much depending, so she planned to do
her best;
And she set the earthen pitcher on the coals as in a
nest,
With the embers laid around it; then she thought
again, and cast
On the pile a few gray ashes, that it might not boil
too fast.
But the touch of sleep was on her, she was dreaming
while she planned,
And the wooden spoon kept falling from her limp and
listless hand.
Then she roused her, struggling bravely with this
languor, which she viewed
As a snare, a sore temptation, to be fought with and
subdued.
But another fear assailed her -- what if she should
faint or fall?
And tonight the storm-swept cottage seems so far away
from all!
How the fitful wind is moaning! And between the gusts
that blow,
She can hear the torrent roaring, in the deep ravine
below.
And her head is aching strangely, as it never did
before:
“Good Lord, help me!” she is saying: “this can last
but little more!
O my blessed Lord and Master, only help me through the
night--
Only keep my eyes from closing till they see the
morning light!
For that mother and that baby do so weak and helpless
lie,
And with only me to serve them, -- if I leave them,
they may die!
She is better -- yes I know it, but a touch may turn
the scale.
I can send for help tomorrow, but tonight I must not
fail!”
‘T was in vain; for sleep had conquered, and the words
she tried to say
First became a drowsy murmur, then grew faint and died
away.
And she slept as sleep the weary, heedless how the
night went on,
With her pitcher all untended, with her labour all
undone;
On the wall her head reclining, in the chimney’s empty
space,
While the firelight flared and flickered on her pale
and peaceful face.
Was her humble prayer unanswered? Oh, the Lord has
many a way
That His children little think of, to send answers
when they pray!
It was long she sat there sleeping --- do you think
her work was spoiled?
No, the fir-wood fire kept burning, and the pitcher
gently boiled:
Ne’er a taint of smoke had touched it, nor one
precious drop had been spilt;
When she moved and looked around her, with a sudden
sense of guilt.
But her eyes, when first they opened, saw a vision,
strange and sweet,
For a little Child was standing in the hearth-stone at
her feet.
And He seemed no earthly infant, for His robe was like
the snow,
And a glory shone about Him that was not the firelight
glow.
And Himself her work was doing! For He kept the fire
alive,
And He watched the earthen pitcher, that no danger
might arrive
To the simple meal, now ready, with the coals around
it piled.
Then He turned His face toward her, and she knew the
Holy Child.
‘T was her Lord who stood before her! And she did not
shrink nor start ---
There was more of joy than wonder in her all-believing
heart.
When her willing hands were weary, when her patient
eyes were closed,
He had finished all she failed in; He had watched
while she reposed.
Do you ask of His appearance? Human words are weak and
cold;
‘T is enough to say she knew Him ---that is all she
ever told.
Yes, as you and I will know Him when that happy day
shall come,
When, if we on earth have loved Him, He will bid us
welcome home!
But with that one look He left her, and the vision all
had passed,
(Though the peace it left within her to her dying hour
would last!)
Storm had ceased, and wind was silent, there was no
more sound of rain,
And the morning star was shining, through the window’s
broken pane.
Later, when the sun was rising, Marianna looked to
see,
O’er the stretch of rain-washed country, what the day
was like to be,
While the door she softly opened, letting in the
morning breeze,
As it shook the drops by thousands from the wet and
shining trees.
And she saw the sky like crystal, for the clouds had
rolled away,
Though they lay along the valleys, in their folds of
misty grey,
Or to mountain sides were clinging, tattered relics of
the storm.
And among the trees below her she could see a moving
form,
‘T was the husband home returning, yes thank God! He
came at last:
There was no one else would hasten up that mountain
road so fast.
Now the drooping boughs concealed him, now he came in
sight again;
All night long had he been walking in the darkness, in
the rain;
Through the miles of ghostly forest, through the
villages asleep,
He had borne his burden bravely, till he reached that
hillside steep.
And as yet he seemed not weary, for his springing step
was light,
But his face looked worn and haggard with the anguish
of the night.
Now his limbs began to tremble, and he walked with
laboured breath,
For he saw his home before him, should he find there
life or death?
How his heart grew faint within him as he neared the
wished-for place!
One step more, his feet had gained it, they were
standing face to face.
“God has helped us!” was her answer to the question in
his eyes;
And her smile of comfort told him that the danger had
gone by.
It was morning now, fair morning! and the broken
sunlight fell
Through the boughs that crossed above her, where the
buds began to swell,
As down the sloping pathway, that her feet so oft had
pressed,
Went the Sister Marianna to her convent home to rest.
It was spring that breathed around her, for the winter
strove no more,
And the snowdrifts all had vanished with the rain the
night before.
Now a bee would flit beside her, as she lightly moved
along;
Or a bird among the branches tried a few low notes of
song.
But her heart had music sweeter than the bird-notes in
her ears!
She was leaving joy behind her in that home of many
tears:
Hope was there, and health returning; there were happy
voice and smile,
For the father at his coming had brought plenty for a
while.
And she knew with whom she left them, for herself His
care had proved,
When her mortal eyes were opened, and she saw the face
she loved,
On that night of storm and trouble, when to help her
He had come,
As He helped His own dear Mother in their humble
earthly home.
As she went the day grew warmer; sweeter came the wild
bird’s call;
Then, what made her start and linger? ‘T was a
perfume, that was all:
Faint, but yet enough to tell her that the violets
were in bloom;
And she turned aside to seek them, for that picture in
her room.
Ack. ‘The Hidden Servants and other very old stories’
--- told over again by Francesca Alexander.
(Published by David Nutt, at the sign of the Phoenix,
Long Acre, London.1911.)
*********************
Francesca
Alexander was the daughter of an American artist and lived most of her life in
Italy. A deeply religious woman, Protestant by upbringing, she had this to say
about her work, “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.” As she grew older Francesca gradually lost her sight, limiting
her writing opportunities, but persuading her to adopt poetry in translating
these many works, which she believed made the stories ‘vivid and
comprehensible’ particularly for children, but also for older people. In her
letter Francesca, who for most of her life worked as an artist, commented that
“when the Lord took from me one faculty, He gave me another, which in no way is
impossible. And I think of the beautiful Italian proverb: ‘When God shuts a
door He opens a window.’ “
Cardinal
Manning, when writing to Mr Ruskin in 1883 to thank him for a copy of
Francesca’s ‘Story of Ida’, writes :---“It is simply beautiful, like the Floretti
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.”
