More Italian Yesterdays

by Mrs. Hugh Fraser

A yet more notable encounter than the one with Galla took place at the arched doorway, in 542, one year before Benedict’s death. Totila, the Ostrogoth, swept down through Italy to retrieve the losses and defeats inflicted on his predecessor by Belisarius. It was a triumphal progress. He was on his way to Naples when the whim took him to see for himself the venerated prophet of the holy mountain. But first he wished to test the prophet’s powers. So he caused the captain of his guard to be dressed in all his own royal robes, down to the famous purple boots, gave him three noble counts for his attendants and a great escort of soldiers, and told him to go and pass himself off on Benedict as the real Totila. We are not informed how the unlucky captain regarded his mission—probably with fear and reluctance—but it failed dismally. As he approached the monastery, St. Benedict perceived him from afar, and called out, “My son, put off the dress you wear! It is not yours.”

The captain, terrified, threw himself on the ground. Then remounting, he and his whole company turned round and galloped away at full speed to tell Totila that it was useless to attempt to deceive the man of God. And Totila understood, and came himself, very humbly, and saw the Abbot sitting as usual, in the doorway, reading a holy book. The conqueror was afraid. He threw himself face downward on the sward and dared not approach. Three times Benedict bade him rise—still he lay prone. Then the Saint left his seat and came and raised Totila up and led him to the house and talked long and earnestly with him, reproving him for the wrong he had done, and showing him that he must treat his conquered subjects kindly and justly. Also St. Benedict, mercifully moved thereto by the sincerity of the Barbarian, told him what lay in store for him. “You shall enter Rome; you shall cross the sea; nine years you shall reign, and in the tenth you shall die.”

And Totila repented of his many evil deeds and begged the seer to pray for him, and went back to his camp a changed man. Thenceforth he protected the weak, restrained his followers and showed himself so mild and wise that the delighted Neapolitans, who had been expecting a repetition of the awful massacres ordered by Belisarius, said that Totila treated them as if they were his own children. From that time the tenth year was ever before his eyes, and when it came he died, contrite and resigned.

One gleam from home was shed on St. Benedict at Monte Cassino. His sister Scholastica had long since followed his example and given herself to God. It was not permitted to women to take the final vows before the age of forty, but that did not prevent them from preparing for the irrevocable dedication by living together in religious communities, under a fixed rule, from their early youth, when they were so inclined. Such a life Scholastica had led, somewhere in the solitudes of the Sabines—perhaps in her own home at Norcia; but she came at last to Monte Cassino and built a convent there for herself and her companions, so as to be near the brother she loved. Only once a year did they meet, and then they spent the day together in a hut on the side of Benedict’s mountain, he coming down with a few of the brethren, and she accompanied by some of the nuns. All their discourse was of holy things, and much they spoke of the longed-for joys of heaven.

Now in the year 543 they had thus passed the day together, and evening was drawing on. St. Benedict rose, saying that he and his companions must return to the monastery, but Scholastica, for the first time in all those years, begged him to remain with her till the morning. The Saint was horrified. “Do you not know, my sister,” he exclaimed, “that the Rule forbids a monk to pass the night out of the monastery? How can you ask me to do such a thing?”

Scholastica did not reply. She bowed her head on her hands on the table that had served for their repast, and wept, praying to God that her brother might stay, for she knew that they were to meet no more in this world. She wept so heart-brokenly that her tears flooded the table and made little rivers on the ground. It was a mild February evening, and the sun had sunk away from a calm and cloudless sky. But suddenly a fearful tempest arose, the thunder roared, the rain came down in torrents, the lightning seared the heavens from side to side.

“Sister, what have you done?” St. Benedict exclaimed, fearing that the storm was a manifestation of the Divine displeasure.

Scholastica raised her head and smiled at him through her tears. “God has granted what you refused,” she said. “Go back to the monastery now, brother, if you can!”

But there was no going back through that tempest, and St. Benedict, perceiving that the Lord was on Scholastica’s side, stayed with her till morning, and they had great sweetness of holy converse all night long. And when the sun rose, Scholastica asked for his blessing and said farewell for the last time, and she and her nuns went down the hill to their own convent, looking back many times, I think, to that other one on the hill. And three days later she died, and her brother saw her soul mount to heaven under the appearance of a spotless dove, and he called his monks and said to them with great rejoicing: “My sister is with God. Go and bring her body hither that we may bury it with honour.” Which they did, and Benedict made her a grave at the foot of the altar in his church.

Now he knew that his own end was approaching, and he disposed all things rightly, and mightily exhorted his brethren to persevere and to be faithful to their Rule. And he more than ever afflicted his body with penance and abounded in charity to the poor. And thirty-four days after Scholastica had departed, a great fever seized him, so that he had no strength and suffered much. But he never ceased from praying, and bade all his monks pray that God would have mercy on his soul. On the sixth day of the fever he bade them carry him into the church, where he had already caused his sister’s grave to be opened to receive him. There, on the edge of the grave, supported by his disciples, he received the Holy Viaticum, and then bade them lift him to his feet. He stretched out his arms, praised God once more for all His goodness, and died—standing, like the gallant warrior he was!