The Well of Saint Clare | Page 4

and he would
tell over for my benefit some fragment of history known only to
himself. He had many delightful stories of the sort to relate, being
better read than any one else in the antiquities of his country. These
lived again and grew bright and young in his head, as if it contained an
intellectual Fountain of Eternal Youth. Ever fresh pictures flowed from
his white-fringed lips. As he spoke, the moonlight bathed his beard in a
silver flood. The crickets accompanied the narrator's voice with the
shrilling of their wing-cases, and ever and anon his words, uttered in

the softest of all dialects of human speech, would be answered by the
fluted plaintive croaking of the frogs, which hearkened from across the
road--a friendly, if apprehensive audience.
I left Sienna towards the middle of June; and I have never seen the
Reverend Father Adone Doni since. He clings to my memory like a
figure in a dream; and I have now put into writing the tales he told me
on the road of Monte Oliveto. They will be found in the present volume;
I only hope they may have retained, in their new dress, some vestiges
of the grace they had in the telling at the Well of St. Clare.

SAN SATIRO
TO ALPHONSE DAUDET

SAN SATIRO
Consors paterni luminis, Lux ipse lucis et dies, Noctem canendo
rumpimus; Assiste postulantibus.
Aufer tenebras mentium; Fuga catervas dæmonum; Expelle
somnolentiam, Ne pigritantes obruat.[1]
(Breviarium Romanum Third day of the week: at matins.)
[Footnote 1: "Partner of the Father's light, light of light and day of day,
we break the dusk of night with psalms; help us now, Thy suppliants.
Remove the darkness of our minds; scatter the demon hosts away;
expel the sin of drowsiness, lest we be slack in serving Thee."]
Fra Mino had raised himself by his humility above his brethren, and
still a young man, he governed the Monastery of Santa Fiora wisely
and well. He was devout, and loved long meditations and long prayers;
sometimes he had ecstasies. After the example of his spiritual father, St.
Francis, he composed songs in the vernacular tongue in celebration of

perfect love, which is the love of God. And these exercises were
without fault whether of metre or of meaning, for had he not studied the
seven liberal Arts at the University of Bologna?
Now one evening, as he was walking under the cloister arches, he felt
his heart filled with trouble and sadness at the remembrance of a lady
of Florence he had loved in the first flower of his youth, ere the habit of
St. Francis was a safeguard to his flesh. He prayed God to drive away
the image; nevertheless his heart continued sad within him.
"The bells," he pondered, "say like the Angels, AVE MARIA; but their
voice is lost in the mists of heaven. On the cloister wall yonder, the
Master Perugia delights to honour has painted marvellous well the three
Marys contemplating with a love ineffable the body of the Saviour. But
the night has veiled the tears in their eyes and the dumb sobs of their
mouths, and I cannot weep with them. Yonder Well in the middle of
the cloister garth was covered but now with doves that had come to
drink, but these are flown away, for they found no water in the hollows
of the carven well-head. And behold. Lord! my soul falls silent like the
bells, is darkened like the holy Marys, and runs dry like the well. Why,
Jesus my God! why is my heart arid, and dark, and dumb, when Thou
art its dayspring, and the song of birds, and the water-brook flowing
from the hills?"
Fra Mino dreaded to return to his cell, and thinking prayer would dispel
his melancholy and calm his disquiet, he passed into the Monastery
Church by the low door leading from the cloister. Silence and gloom
filled the building, raised more than a hundred and fifty years before on
the foundations of a ruined Roman Temple by the great Margaritone.
He traversed the Nave, and went and knelt in the Chapel behind the
High Altar dedicated to San Michele, whose legend was painted in
fresco on the wall. But the dim light of the lamp hanging from the vault
was insufficient to show the Archangel fighting with Satan and
weighing souls in the balance. Only the moon, shining through the
great window, threw a pale ray over the Tomb of San Satiro, where it
lay under an arcade to the right of the Altar. This tomb, in shape
resembling the great vats used at vintage time, was more ancient than

the Church and in all respects similar to a Pagan sarcophagus, except
that the sign of the Cross was to be