The beatification of Joan of Arc in April 1909 was one more token of the pope's love of another country that had given so much for God, and the presence in Rome of forty thousand of her children was a further proof of her true spirit. And when, borne in the sedia gestatoria through the crowd, the Holy Father, leaning forward, lifted the fold of the French flag that had been lowered at his passage and reverently kissed it, the enthusiasm knew no bounds. That flag had stood for much that was not noble; the memory of its origin was still in the minds of many. But by that kiss it was consecrated for ever.
Monsignor Blanc, a Marist missionary in Oceania, wrote thus to his clergy after an audience with Pius X: "My attention was completely captivated by his expression and his eyes. I could not tell you what the room was like nor what the Holy Father wore; I could see nothing but those eyes, and the light of them I shall never forget. He made me sit beside him, and I spoke of our people, our natives, the country that I love. If the life of the missionary is sometimes hard, let us remember that the pope has said 'the missions are my great consolation.' He was full of interest in all I had to tell him of your work, your zeal and your devotedness. I spoke of our schools and he was delighted. 'Tell them to devote themselves there without counting the cost,' he said: 'it is the most important thing of all." With touching graciousness and cordiality he gave his blessing to you, to our people, to all for whom I asked it."
"You cannot go near him without loving him," said another priest, "his kindness and sweetness are irresistible." Father Boevey Crawley, a South American priest and an ardent apostle of devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, went to Rome to obtain the pope's blessing on his mission. His story was a strange one. Attacked while quite young by a serious form of heart disease, he was sent to Paris to consult a specialist. The American doctors had told him that he had but a few months to live; the Paris specialist confirmed their verdict. Father Crawley had an overwhelming devotion to the Sacred Heart and to St. Margaret Mary. He went straight to Paray-le-Monial to ask through her intercession the grace of a holy death. Scarcely had he knelt in the chapel when he felt himself shaken from head to foot. He was cured. That night while kneeling in prayer before the Blessed Sacrament he received a divine intimation that he was to go forth and conquer the world, family by family, to love the Sacred Heart. To preach love was henceforward to be his mission, for what is devotion to the Sacred Heart but love of the love of Christ? The conversion of his father, who was a Protestant, was the first fruit of his apostolate.
Kneeling at the pope's feet, he told him the story of his life, asking permission to begin the work to which he was called. Pius listened with the deepest interest. Then, "No, my son," he said, "I do not give you permission."
Father Crawley looked up at him in consternation; the pope's eyes were shining, and there was a little smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. "But, Holy Father . . ." pleaded the priest.
"No," repeated the pope, "I do not give you permission."—"I do not give you permission," he said again. "I order you to do it. You hear? I am the pope, and I command it. It is a splendid work; let your whole life be consecrated to it."
"He had the greatest heart that it was possible for a human being to have," was said of Pius X, not once but many times. Even for treachery he had no condemnation. A betrayal of trust which had affected him deeply came to his knowledge after the death of the culprit. Folding his hands he prayed silently for the departed soul. "He is dead," he said gently, "may he rest in peace." He met with a sad smile an indignant accusation of treachery against one who was still living, an accusation which could not be denied. "Traitor is a hard word," he said, "let us say that he is a man of many skins—like an onion . . . ."
One more picture drawn from life. A young priest, tortured by doubts, knelt shaken with sobs at the pope's feet. The white figure bent compassionately over the kneeling man, the strong and gentle hands of the Holy Father held the head of the suppliant closely to his heart. "Faith, faith, faith," repeated the ringing voice over and over again. "Faith, my son, must be your place of refuge."