The Story of Assisi

by Lina Duff Gordon

Late in the evening of the 30th we happened to be at the Angeli when a new batch of pilgrims arrived, and for a long time we watched them reverently approach the Portiuncula on their knees, singing all the time the pilgrim's hymn with the ever-recurring refrain, "Evviva Maria e Chi la creò," which resounded through the church in long drawn nasal notes ending in a kind of stifled cry. There was something soothing in the plaintive, monotonous cadence as it reached us at the Garden of the Roses, where we had gone to breathe the cool air which blows across the open colonnade even on the hottest of summer days. We were listening to Father Bernardine's peaceful talk about St. Francis and the cicala which sang to him in the fig tree, and the lamb which followed the brethren to office, when suddenly we were startled by shrieks and screams in the church. "It is nothing, only the Neapolitans," said Father Bernardine, smiling at our distress. But unable longer to bear what sounded like the moanings of the wind which always fills one with uneasy feelings, half of fear, half of expectation that something unusual is going to happen, we hurried once again into the church. There a sight met our eyes which we shall never forget. Lying full length on the ground, their faces prone upon the pavement, were women crawling slowly, so slowly that the torture seemed interminable, from the entrance of the great church to the Portiuncula, and as they crawled they licked the floor with their tongues leaving behind them a mark like the trail of a slug. As we watched these poor penitents dragging themselves along, unconscious of aught around them and only overwhelmed by the consciousness that they must make atonement for past sins, a terrible sense of compassion, misery and disgust came over us. Who could restrain their tears, though they may have been tears of anger that people should be allowed to practise such ignoble acts of self-abasement. One girl especially called forth all our sympathy. She came running in out of the sunlight, and after standing for a moment at the entrance with her eager face uplifted towards the holy shrine, her eyes alight with the strange look of one bent upon some great resolve, she threw herself down full length upon the ground and commenced the terrible penance which she had come all the way from the Abruzzi mountains to perform.[114] She was very slight and her black skirt fell round her like a veil, showing the delicate outline of her figure against the marble pavement. Resting her naked feet against the knees of a man kneeling behind her, she pushed herself forward with the movement of a caterpillar. Another man tapped his pilgrim's staff sharply on the floor in front of her face to direct her towards the chapel, whilst her mother ever now and then bent down to smooth away the tangle of dark hair which fell round the girl like a shroud. Though prematurely aged by toil and suffering, the elder woman had a beautiful face, reminding one of a Mater Dolorosa as with bitter tears she assisted at her daughter's deep humiliation. Just as this sad little group neared the Portiuncula the girl stopped as though her strength were exhausted, when the mother, choked by sobs, lifted the heavy masses of her daughter's hair and tried to raise her from the ground. The pilgrims pressed round singing "Evviva Maria e Chi la creò" until the sound became deafening, while the men struck the ground almost angrily with their sticks, and at last the girl still licking the ground crawled forward once again. When she reached the altar of the Portiuncula she stretched out one hand and touched the iron gates, and then like a worm rearing itself in the air and turning from side to side, she dragged herself on to her knees. As consciousness returned and the Southern blood coursed again like fire through her veins, she started to her feet and with wild cries entreated San Francesco to hear her, beating the gates with her hands and swaying from side to side. The cry of a wounded animal might recall to one's memory the prayer of that young girl, storming heaven with notes of passionate entreaty wrung from a soul in great mental agony. Other penitents came up to take her place almost pushing her out of the chapel. We last saw her fast asleep on the steps of a side altar curled up like a tired dog, but on her face was an expression of great calm as though she had indeed found the peace sought in so repulsive and terrible a manner. Silently we left the church and turned towards Assisi, breathing with joy the pure air and looking long at the hills lying so calm and clear around us. Next day, the 31st of July, there was an excited feeling in the town, not among the Umbrians, for they take the annual feast of the "Perdono" quietly enough, but among the pilgrims, who having now arrived in hundreds and paid their first visit to the franciscan churches of the hill and of the plain, stood about in the lower piazza of San Francesco waiting with evident impatience for the opening of the feast of the afternoon. We caught their feeling of expectation and found it impossible to do aught else than watch the people from the balcony, and then we went down and wandered about among them. There were such tired groups of women under the loggie of the piazza, leaning back in the shadow of the arches with their shawls drawn across their faces to shut out the glare of the August sun. A crowd of girls rested on the little patch of grass near the church, some eating their bread, others sleepily watching the constant passage of people in and out of the church; for long spaces they sat silent, listlessly waiting, then suddenly one among them would rise and sing a southern song, sounding so strange in Umbria. Her companions, casting off the desire to sleep, joined in the chorus until the song was ended and they once more became silent watchers. The shadows began to deepen round the church, the feeling of expectation increased, and the hours of waiting seemed long to the crowd and to us, when about four o'clock the dense mass of people in front of the church divided. A procession of priests in yellow copes filed out of the Basilica, one among them carrying the autograph benediction of St. Francis (see p. [210]), and went to the little chapel near the Chiesa Nuova built over the stable where the saint is said to have been born. Here the holy relic is raised for the faithful to venerate, and the procession returns to San Francesco. It is a small but important ceremony, the prelude to the granting of the indulgence. We had reached the chapel before the procession, through side streets, but soon returned to the lower church for the crowd was intolerable, and we had been warned that once the blessing had been given a mad rush might be made to reach San Francesco and that sometimes people were trampled under foot. Out of the burning heat we entered the cool dark church where Umbrian peasants had already taken their places, as spectators, but not as actors in the feast. Seated on low benches against the wall they formed wondrous groups of colour, like clumps of cyclamen and primroses we have seen flowering in a wood upon an Italian roadside. The gates across the church had been shut, and were guarded by gendarmes; we had arrived too late. But presently Fra Luigi appeared at the gate of St. Martin's chapel, and hurriedly we followed him down the dark, narrow passage leading to the sacristy; we had only just time to run across the church and take our places outside the chapel of St. Mary Magdalen, when the great crowd surged into the church. The excitement became intense, and the pilgrims who had followed in the procession as docile as lambs now could restrain themselves no longer, and hustled the priests forward, pressing them against the iron gates in their efforts to approach the altar. There was a moment of tension as the whole of the iron screen bent beneath the weight of the crowd when the gendarmes half opened the gate to allow the priests to pass through. With the relic swaying above their heads, they slipped in from among the pilgrims, who, finding the gates once more barred against them, began to moan and shout with deafening fury. The organ pealed forth mad music, the incense rose in clouds around the altar, and eager faces peered through the gates, which were battered with angry fists as the people pushed against each other so that the whole crowd rocked from side to side. Through it all stood the quiet figure of the priest, raising the relic high above the heads of the people whose voices were for the moment hushed, as the words of benediction were pronounced. Rapidly crossing the church, followed by his attendants, he entered the sacristy and shut the door, while four gendarmes stationed themselves at the corners of the altar to prevent people from mounting the steps, and others went to unbar the gates. There was a great creaking of bolts and hinges and in a moment the pilgrims rushed forward, afraid of losing even a single moment of the precious hours of indulgence, and cries of "San Francesco" almost drowned the sound of hurrying footsteps. Families caught each other by the arms and swept wildly round the altar, often knocking people down in their wild career, old women gathered up their skirts and ran, the Abruzzesi in their scarlet jackets, whom we had seen so calmly walking down the streets, stepped eagerly forward with outstretched arms and clasped hands calling loudly on the saint. Round they went in a perpetual circle, first past the altar, then through the Maddalena chapel out into the Piazza, and back again without a single pause. Each time they entered the church they gained a new plenary indulgence. From the walls the frescoed saints leant towards us, and never had they seemed so full of peace and beauty, as on that day of hurry and strange excitement. We saw them through a mist of dust, but they were more real to us than the fanatics streaming past in mad career, and we greeted them as friends. Then as the sun went down in a crimson sky behind the Perugian hills, a great stillness fell upon the people, the gaining of indulgences for that day had ceased, and quietly those who had no shelters went into the country lanes to pass the night, or rested beneath a gateway of the town. Already Assisi was returning to her long spell of silence, for next morning at dawn the pilgrims would be on their road to Sta. Maria degli Angeli for the early morning mass.

SAN FRANCESCO AND THE LOWER PIAZZA

Rashly we left the quietness of the town to join the crowd again down in the plain late the next afternoon when the feast was nearly over. The press of people was felt more at the Angeli than at San Francesco, as they gained the indulgence by simply walking round the church and through the Portiuncula without going outside. It was useless to struggle, or to attempt to go the way we wanted, for we were simply carried off our feet and borne round the church in breathless haste in the temperature of a Turkish bath. There were moments of suspense when we doubted, as the crowd bore us swiftly forward, whether we should pass the confessional boxes without being crushed against the sharp corners. The cries of "Evviva Maria, Evviva San Francesco," became deafening as we neared the Portiuncula, and the people surged through the doors, throwing handfuls of coppers and silver coins upon the altar steps, and even at the picture of the Madonna above the altar in their extraordinary enthusiasm. How tired they looked, but in their eyes was a fixed look showing the feelings which spurred them on to gain as much grace as time would allow. They never paused, they never rested. With a last glance back upon the people and the names of Mary and Frances ringing in our ears we left the stifling atmosphere for the burning, but pure air outside.

How peaceful it all seemed in comparison to the scene we had just witnessed. The Piazza was full of booths as on a market day, with rows of coloured handkerchiefs, sea-green dresses such as the peasants like, and endless toys and religious objects; old women sat under large green umbrellas selling cakes, and cooks, in white aprons and caps, stood by their pots and pans ready to serve you an excellent meal. From under a tree a man sprang up as we passed with something of the pilgrim's eagerness about him, saying, "See, I will sing you a song and dance for you," shaking his companions from their sleep and snatching up his accordion, he began a wild, warlike dance upon the grass, while the others accompanied him with an endless chant. And so the hours crept on, until once again as the sun went down the pilgrims streamed quietly out of the church, but this time they gathered up their bundles and walked to the ox waggons which were standing ready in the road, and quite silently without delay they seated themselves, fifteen or twenty in a cart, to start upon their long journey home.

Never had the town been so deadly still as on the 2nd of August, when the inhabitants had gone down the hill to the church of the Angeli where they sought to obtain their indulgences now the pilgrims had departed. Very quietly they knelt on the marble floor during the High Mass, silently they prayed, and with slow reverent steps they passed in and out of the Portiuncula until the Vesper hour, and the beautiful, calm evening then found them gathered round the altar of their saint. "Pray, ye poor people, chant and pray. If all be but a dream to wake from this were loss for you indeed."

APPENDIX

To visitors who stay at Assisi for more than the usual hurried day, the following notes of walks and excursions may be of some use. A few of them have been already indicated by M. Paul Sabatier, in a paper printed at Assisi, to explain the sixteenth century map of the town found by him in the Palazzo Pubblico, of which a copy hangs in a room in the Hotel Subasio.