Blessed
Lucy of Narni
by
Lady Georgiana Fullerton
It was towards the latter end of the 15th century that Lucia
Broccoletti was horn in the ancient city of Narni, in Umbria, where
her father's house had long held a noble and distinguished rank. Even
as a baby in the cradle, there were not wanting signs which marked
her as no ordinary child; and if we may credit the account given us
by her old biographers, both her nurses and mother were accustomed to
see her daily visited by an unknown religious dressed in the
Dominican habit, whose majestic appearance seemed something more than
human, and who, taking her from her cradle, embraced her tenderly,
and gave her her blessing. They watched closely, to see whence this
mysterious visitor came and whither she went, but were never able to
follow her; and the mother becoming at length alarmed at the daily
recurrence of this circumstance, it was revealed to her that her
child's unknown visitor was no other than Saint Catherine of Sienna,
to whom she was given as an adopted daughter.
The accounts
that have been preserved of Lucia's childhood have a peculiar
interest of their own. Whilst the early biographies of many saints
present us with instances of extraordinary graces and favours granted
to them in infancy, quite as numerous and remarkable as those
bestowed on Blessed Lucy, yet in her case we find them mixed with the
details of a characteristic vivacity of temperament, which give them
a lifelike reality, and show her to us, in the midst of her
supernatural visitations, with all the impetuosity of an imaginative
child. When she was only four years old, her mother's brother, Don
Simon, came on a visit to his sister's house, and brought with him
from Rome various toys and presents for the children. Lucy was given
her choice; and whilst the others were loudly clamouring for the
dolls and puppets, she selected a little rosary with an image of the
Child Jesus; and this being given to her, she took it in her arms,
bestowing every name of childish endearment on it, kissing its hands
and feet, and calling it her dear Christarello, a name which
continued to be given to it ever afterwards. The rest of the day she
spent in her own little room, where she arranged a corner for the
reception of the Christarello, and was never tired of seeing and
caressing her new treasure. Henceforth it was here that she spent the
happiest moments of the day. If ever she got into any trouble in the
house, it was here she came to pour out all her sorrow; and the
innocent simplicity of her devotion was so pleasing to God, that more
than once He permitted that the Christarello should wipe away the
tears which she shed on these occasions with His little hand, as was
several times witnessed by her mother, who watched her through the
half-open door. As she grew a little older, she began to accompany
her mother to church; and they frequently went to visit the great
church of Saint Augustine, which was close to the house where they
lived. Now it happened that in this church, among other devout
images, there was a small has-relief of the Blessed Virgin holding
her Divine Son in her arms, which took the child's fancy the first
time they entered, so that she stopped to look at it. Her mother
observed her as she lingered behind: "Lucy," she said, "do
you know who that beautiful lady is whom you see there? She is the
Mother of your Christarello; and the little Child whom she carries in
her arms is the Christarello also. If you like, we will come here
sometimes; and you shall bring the rosary you are so fond of, and say
it before her image." Lucy was delighted at the idea; and
whenever she could escape from her nurse's hand, she found her way to
the church, to admire this new object of her devotion. One day, being
thus occupied, the thought came into her head, how much she would
like to hold the Christarello for once in her own arms, as she had
learnt to hold her little baby brother. She therefore prayed to the
Blessed Virgin with great earnestness that her request might be
granted, and immediately the marble figure of the little Jesus was
extended to her by His Mother, and placed in her arms. Nor was this
all: no sooner had she received her precious burden, than she felt
the cold marble become a living Child; and, full of delight, she ran
home still carrying Him; and though she met many people on the way,
who stopped her as she hurried along, and tried to take Him from her,
she succeeded in getting safe to her own room at home, where she shut
herself up with her treasure, and remained with Him for three days
and nights without food or sleep, insensible to all the entreaties
and remonstrances of her astonished mother. Conquered at length by
fatigue, on the third day she fell asleep; and when she woke she
became sensible of the truth that God abides only with those who
watch with Him; for, on opening her eyes, the first thing she
perceived was that the Christarello was gone. Her cries of distress
were heard by her mother, who, to console her, carried her once more
to the church; and there they found the marble child restored to the
image as before, although for the three previous days its place in
the arms of the Virgin's figure had been empty.
She was
accustomed from time to time to pay a visit to the uncle before
mentioned, and when about seven years old she went as usual to spend
some time with him at his country house. She remembered, on the
occasion of a former visit, to have seen a room in some part of the
house where there were some little angels painted on the walls, as it
seemed to her, holding their hands and dancing; and the first morning
after her arrival, she determined to set out on a diligent search
after the dancing angels. The room in which they were painted was in
a wing of the house which had fallen out of repair, and was no longer
used by the family; a staircase had led to the upper story, but this
was now fallen and in ruins; and though Lucy, as she stood at the
bottom, could see the little angels on the wall above her head, all
her efforts were unavailing to climb the broken staircase and reach
the object of her search. She had recourse to her usual expedient,
prayer to the Christarello, and instantly found herself in the empty
room, without well knowing how she came there. But her thoughts were
soon busy with the angels. There they were; little winged children,
their heads garlanded with flowers, their mantles floating as it
seemed in the air; and they danced with such an air of enjoyment and
superhuman grace, that Lucy sat on the ground before them, absorbed
in admiration. As she sat thus, she heard her own name called from
the window. She turned round, expecting to see her uncle or some of
the servants of the house; but a very different spectacle met her
eye. A glorious company of saints and angels stood round the Person
of Jesus Himself. On His right was His Virgin Mother; on His left,
Saint Catherine and the great Patriarch Saint Dominic, with many
others. Then those mystic espousals were celebrated which we read of
in so many other tales of the Saints of God: the Divine Spouse
receiving the hand of the delighted child from His Blessed Mother,
placed a ring on her finger, which she preserved to the hour of her
death; after which He assigned her to the special guardianship of
Saint Dominic and Saint Catherine, whom from that day she always was
used to call her "father and mother." "And have you
nothing to give Me?" He then asked of His little Spouse; "will
you not give Me that silk mantle and pretty necklace?" Lucy was
dressed in the rich fashion of the day, with a crimson damask mantle
over her other garments, and a necklace of gold and coral beads about
her neck; but at these words of her Spouse, she hastily stripped them
off, and lay them at His feet. He did not fail, however, to give her
a richer dress in their place; for she had no sooner taken off the
silk mantle, than Saint Dominic clothed her with the scapular of his
order, which she continued to wear during the rest of her life under
her other clothes. When the vision had disappeared, Lucy found
herself full of a new and inexpressible joy. She turned to the little
angels on the wall, the only companions left her after the last of
the heavenly train had faded from her eyes, and with the simplicity
of her childish glee, she spoke to them as though they were alive.
"You dear little angels," she said, "are you not glad
at what our Lord has done?" Then the angels seemed to move from
the wall, and to become, indeed, full of life; and they spoke to her
in reply, and said they were very glad to have her for their queen
and lady, as the Spouse of their dear Lord. And they invited her to
join in their dance of joy, and sang so sweet and harmonious a music,
and held out their hands so kindly and graciously, that Lucy would
have been well content never to have left her happy place of retreat;
nor would she have done so, if she had not been found by her uncle,
and carried against her will back to the house.
The death of
her father, left her whilst still young, to the guardianship of her
uncle. All her own wishes were fixed on a life of religion, but her
uncle had different views for her; and after long resistance on her
part, he succeeded in inducing her to accept as her husband Count
Pietro of Milan, a young nobleman of considerable worth and
abilities. The marriage was accordingly celebrated; but not until, in
answer to earnest prayers, Lucy had received a divine revelation that
a life so contrary to all her own wishes and intentions was indeed
God's will regarding her.
Doubtless it is one of those cases
in which it is not easy for us to follow the ways of Divine
Providence. The marriage was followed by much suffering to both
parties; yet, if we be willing to take the Saints' lives as they are
given us, without seeking to reduce the supernatural elements we find
in them to the level of our own understanding, we shall not he
disposed to doubt the truth of the revelation which commanded it, or
to fancy things would have been much better if Blessed Lucy had never
been placed in a position so little in harmony with her own wishes.
On the contrary, we must admire the grace of God, which would perhaps
never have been so amply manifested in His servant, had she been
called to a more congenial way of life. We are accustomed to admire
the wonderful variety of examples which are presented to us in the
lives of the Saints: that of Blessed Lucy offers us one of a soul
with all her sympathies and desires fixed on the higher life of
religion, yet fulfilling with perfect exactitude the minutest duties
of a different vocation. She sanctified herself in the will of God,
though that will was manifested to her in a position which the world
is used to call the hardest of all to bear - an ill-assorted
marriage. She found means to practise the humiliation of the
cloister, without laying aside the duties, or even the becoming
dignity, of her station.
Her first care, on finding herself
the young mistress of a house full of servants, was with them, whom
she ever looked on less as menials than as a cherished portion of her
family. And in the beautiful account given us of her intercourse with
them, we must remember that at the period in which she lived, it was
considered nothing uncommon or unbecoming for ladies of the highest
rank to join in the household occupations, and take their part in the
day's employment, working with their servants, and presiding amongst
them with an affectionate familiarity, which, without rendering them
less a mistress, gave them at the same time almost the position of a
mother. Blessed Lucy delighted in the opportunities, which the simple
manners of the day thus afforded her, of laying aside her rich dress
and ornaments, and assisting in her own kitchen, where she always
chose the meanest and most tiresome offices. What was with others
only done in compliance with the ordinary habit of the day, was with
her made the occasion of secret humiliations. One of her servants, a
woman of very holy life and disposition, she took into her
confidence, submitting herself to her direction, and obeying her as a
religious superior. On Holy Thursday, she washed the feet of all her
domestics; and that with so touching a devotion as to draw tears from
the eyes of the rudest and most indifferent among them. So perfect
was the discipline she succeeded in introducing among them, that, far
from presenting the spectacle of disorder so common in households
filled with a crowd of feudal retainers of all kinds, her palace had
the quietude and serenity of a monastery. Never was an oath or
licentious word heard among them; the name of God was honoured; and
habits of devotion became cherished and familiar, where before they
had been too often an occasion of mockery. All the family dined at
the same table; and during the repast the Lives of the Saints, or the
Holy Scriptures, were read aloud. If any fault were committed by any
of the household, Blessed Lucy knew how to punish it so rigorously as
to prevent a repetition of the offence; and in this she was often
assisted by the gift of prophecy, which she enjoyed in a remarkable
degree. We read an amusing account of two of her maidens, who took
the opportunity of their mistress's absence at church to kill two
fine capons, which they resolved to dress privately for their own
eating. The birds were already on the spit, when their mistress was
heard entering the house. Fearful of discovery, they took the
half-roasted capons from the fire, and hid them under a bed. Blessed
Lucy, however, knew all that had happened. "Where are the
capons," she said, "that were in the court this morning?"
"They have flown away," said the two women, in great
confusion: "we have been looking for them every where." "Do
not try to deceive God, my children," replied Blessed Lucy:
"they are both under your bed; if you will follow me, I will
show them to you." The servants followed her in silent dismay;
but their astonishment was still more increased, when not only did
she lead them to the very place where they had hidden their spoils,
hut calling the birds to come out, they flew out alive, and began to
crow lustily.
In another story of her life, we find her
represented with her women washing the linen of the house by the side
of a river that flowed by the castle. Whilst so engaged, one of them
fell into the river and sank to the bottom; but Blessed Lucy made the
sign of the cross over the water, and immediately the drowning woman
appeared on the surface safe and sound, close to the river's
bank.
And in the midst of these simple and homely occupations,
the supernatural life of prayer, and ecstacy, and communion with God,
was never for a moment interrupted. Strange and beautiful sights were
seen by many of those who were present in the church when she
communicated: sometimes a column of fire rested on her head;
sometimes her face itself shone and sparkled like the sun. Once two
little children, whom she had adopted as her own, saw, as they knelt
behind her, two angels come and crown their mother with a garland, of
exquisite roses. But the children began to weep; for they said one to
another, "Certainly our mother cannot have long to live, for the
angels are even now crowning her with flowers."
The
beauty of her face, and its extraordinary brilliancy at these times,
had a singular power in controlling those who beheld it. Even Count
Pietro himself was tamed and conquered by a glance from her eye, when
it shone with this more than human splendour.
This mention of
Count Pietro's name reminds us that it is tune we should say
something of him, and of his share in a story which has in some
parts, as we read it, the character of a romance. He was not a bad
man; he seems indeed to have had many good qualities, and to have
been possessed in some respects of a degree of refinement beyond what
was common at the time. He was sincerely attached to his saintly
wife; but he could not understand her. They were beings of different
worlds; and the very qualities which extorted his respect and
admiration often sadly perplexed and worried him. Her very affection
for himself was above his comprehension; his own feelings were too
much made up of the ordinary selfishness of the world, for him to
know how to measure the love of one whose love was in God. He felt
her power over himself; and whilst he yielded to it, it irritated
him, and not the less because there was nothing of which he could
complain. This irritation showed itself in a morose jealousy,
sometimes varied by fits of passionate violence; in which he went so
far as to confine his wife to her room, and once even to threaten her
life.
All this, and the yet more wearing trial of their daily
intercourse, was borne by Blessed Lucy with unvarying sweetness and
gentleness. But though she accommodated herself in every thing to his
sullen temper, and even showed him a true and loyal obedience, the
desire after those heavenly espousals to which she had been promised
whilst still a child never left her heart; and as time went on, she
began to look about for some opportunity of carrying her wishes into
effect. In those days it was no uncommon spectacle to see a wife or a
husband, in obedience to the interior call of heaven, abandon every
tie of flesh and blood for the retirement of the cloister; nor was
the propriety of such a step ever questioned. Society, as a body, in
the ages of faith, acknowledged the principle, that one whom Christ
calls should leave all and follow Him. When, therefore, we hear that
Blessed Lucy at length resolved to leave her husband's house, and
take the habit of religion in the Order of Saint Dominic, we must
remember that she was no more acting contrary to the custom of the
age, than when she worked with her servants in the kitchen. It is not
an easy matter at any time for us to judge of the vocation or
conscience of another; but when we have to carry back our
investigation four hundred years, we can hardly hope that the whole
history of a resolution of this nature, - why it was carried out now,
and why it was not carried out before her marriage, - should be laid
open before us like the pages of a book. Of one thing only we cannot
doubt, - God's will had been very clearly and sufficiently declared;
both at first, when she consented to give up her own wishes, and now,
when the time was come for them to be granted. She contented herself
at first with receiving the habit of the third order, and remaining
in her mother's house for a year; during which time she had to endure
much from the indignation of her husband, who expressed his own
disapproval of her step in a very summary way, by burning down the
monastery of the prior who had given her the habit. But her uncles at
length took the case into their own hands; and after considering the
very extraordinary signs of a divine call which had been made
manifest in her life, they decided that she should be suffered to
follow it without further molestation, and placed her in the
monastery of Saint Catherine of Sienna at Rome.
Within a year
from her entrance there, the fame of her sanctity had become so
universal, that Father Joachim Turriano, the General of the Order,
being about to found a new convent of nuns at Viterbo, selected her
as the prioress of the new foundation; on which office she
accordingly entered in the year 1496, being then exactly twenty years
of age. So great was the reputation she enjoyed, that though the
number of religious sent with her to Viterbo by the general was only
five, the crowds that applied for admission as soon as her presence
was known was so great that the convent had to be enlarged; and she
soon saw herself at the head of a numerous and flourishing
community.
Meanwhile, her unhappy husband had not abandoned
all hopes of inducing her even yet to return to the world. He had
followed her to Rome, and made vain efforts to see and speak with
her: he now followed her also to Viterbo; and though unsuccessful in
his attempts to obtain the slightest answer to his continual
applications and appeals, he continued to linger about the convent,
in the restless mood of one who would not give up his design as
hopeless. Every tongue around him was busy with the fame of Lucy's
saintliness; from one he heard of her almost continual prayer, from
another, of the glory which was seen to hover over her face in the
presence of the Blessed Sacrament: but soon, in the February
following her removal to Viterbo, the interest of all was absorbed in
a new report, - that she had received the sacred stigmata; and that
in so remarkable a manner as to put all doubt on the subject out of
the question. For it was hi the choir, with the other religious,
that, being engaged in profound meditation on the Passion, she was
observed by one of the sisters to look pale and as if suffering acute
pain. The sister went up to her to support her, and was struck with
the appearance of her hands, the bones of which seemed dislocated,
and the nerves torn. "Mother of God!" she exclaimed, "what
is the matter with your hands?" "Nothing," was the
faint reply; "they are only gone to sleep." But within a
few moments the agony she was enduring and endeavouring to conceal
overpowered her, and she became perfectly senseless. They carried her
from the choir and restored her to consciousness, so that she was
able to return within an hour and receive Holy Communion; but the
same sister who had first observed her, being convinced something
very extraordinary had happened, continued to watch her, and followed
her to her cell. She then remarked that her hands were livid, and the
skin raised and much inflamed; and by the end of the week the wounds
became large and open, and shed so great an abundance of blood that
it could no longer be concealed. The excitement which followed, when
these circumstances became generally known, can hardly be described.
A minute investigation was first made by the Bishop of Viterbo; after
which three successive commissions of inquiry were appointed by the
command of the Pope to examine the affair, and each of these
inquiries terminated in the declaration that the truth of the miracle
was beyond all dispute. Multitudes flocked to the convent to see and
touch the sacred wounds, and came back full of the wonders which
their own eyes had witnessed. Duke Hercules of Este, the Pope's
nephew, made earnest applications to his uncle to suffer her to be
removed to his own city of Ferrara; and whilst all these things were
going on, Count Pietro still remained in Viterbo.
The world
about him was echoing with his wife's renown, but none knew his own
connection with her. Each marvel that he heard did but seem to widen
the gulf between them; yet still he stayed and lingered within sight
of the walls that shut her from him for ever: now bitterly accusing
himself for the blindness of his own conduct towards her; now
striving to keep alive a kind of despairing hope that, could he but
once gain admittance to her presence, he might even yet regain
possession of a treasure which, when it was his, he knew not how to
value. At length his desires were granted. A sudden inspiration
induced Lucy to consent to an interview: it was the first that had
taken place since she had fled from his house, and it was the last
they ever had in this life.
It must have been a singular
meeting: the two years of their separation had altered both. As to
the Count, his restless despair had worn him to an old man. He had
never seen Narni since the day of her departure for Rome, whither he
had followed her; and had spent the long days of those two years
hanging about the convent-gates like some miserable beggar. And the
same two years had placed Lucy far beyond his reach, as it were in a
supernatural world above him. When she stood before him at the grate,
and he beheld her marked with those sacred and mysterious wounds, and
bearing in her whole appearance the air of one whose sympathies were
for ever removed from the affections of humanity, his heart failed
him. He had thought to speak to her of her home, and the claims which
should recall her to the world; he saw before him something a little
lower than the angels; and falling on his knees, he bent his eyes to
the ground, and remained silent. Then she spoke; and heaven seemed to
speak to him by her voice. The mists of earthly passion rolled away
from his heart as he listened; the world and its hopes died in him at
that moment; an extraordinary struggle tore his very soul, then
passed away, and left it in a profound calm. For the first time he
caught a glimpse of that reality which till now he had treated as a
dream; the world and its unquiet joys were now themselves the dream,
and heaven opened on him as the reality. All life fell away from him
in that hour; and when his wife ceased speaking, she had won his soul
to God. He dragged himself to her feet, and bathed them in his tears;
he conjured her pardon for all the persecutions and violence of the
past, and renounced every right or claim over her obedience for ever.
Then, leaving her without another word, he obeyed the voice which had
so powerfully spoken to his heart; for within a few weeks he took the
habit of the Friars Minor of the strict observance; and persevering
in it for many years, died a little before his wife, with the
reputation of sanctity.
Were this a romance, the story of
Blessed Lucy might well end here. But her life was yet scarcely
begun. Shortly after the interview with her husband just spoken of,
Duke Hercules obtained the Pope's orders for her removal to Ferrara.
This was only done by stealth; for the people of Viterbo having got
intelligence of the design, guarded the city night and day; so that,
in order to gain possession of the Saint, the duke was reduced to the
expedient of loading several mules with large baskets, as if full of
goods; and in one of these Blessed Lucy was concealed and carried
off, under the guardianship of a strong body of armed men. Being
arrived at Ferrara, the duke received her with extraordinary honours,
and built a magnificent convent for her reception, to which Pope
Alexander VI. granted singular privileges, by a brief wherein he
declared her to have "followed the footsteps of Saint Catherine
of Sienna in all things." In this convent she gave the habit to
her own mother, as well as to many noble ladies of Ferrara.
It
were too long to tell of all the signs of Divine favour which were
granted to her during the first years of her new government; of the
miracles wrought by her hands, the visions of marvellous beauty that
were given to her gaze; and the familiarity with which she seemed to
live among the saints and angels. Thus one day, passing into the
dormitory, she was met by the figure of a religious, whom she knew to
be Saint Catherine of Sienna. Prostrating herself at her feet, she
prayed her to bless the new monastery, which was dedicated in her
name. The saint willingly complied, and they went through the house
together; Blessed Lucy carrying the holy water, whilst Saint
Catherine sprinkled the cells, as the manner is in blessing a house.
Whilst they went along, they sang together the hymn _Ace Maris
Stella_; and having finished, Saint Catherine left her staff with
Blessed Lucy, and took her leave. And another time they saw in the
same dormitory a great company of angels, and the form of one of
surpassing beauty, and clad in an azure robe in the midst of them,
standing among them as their queen. Then she sent them hither and
thither, like soldiers to their posts, and bid them guard the various
offices of the monastery; "for," she said, "we must
take possession of this house."
One lingers over this
period of her story, unwilling to pass on to the sorrowful
conclusion. God, who had elevated her so highly in the sight of the
world, was about to set upon her life the seal of a profound
humiliation. Hitherto she had been placed before the eyes of man as
an object of enthusiastic veneration: her convent gates were crowded
by peisons of all ranks, who thronged only to see her for a moment.
Duke Hercules of Este applied to her for counsel in all difficulties
of state. The Pope had issued extraordinary briefs to enable the
religious of other convents and orders to pass under her government,
and even to leave the second order to join her community, which
belonged to the third, - a privilege we shall scarcely find granted
in any other case. But now these triumphs and distinctions were about
to have an end. Blessed Lucy was about twenty-nine years of age. The
honour in which she was held, and the public celebrity she enjoyed,
were a continual source of sorrow and humiliation to her; and with
the desire to escape from something of the popular applause which
followed her, she ceased not earnestly to implore her Divine Spouse
to remove from her the visible marks of the sacred stigmata, which
were the chief cause of the veneration which was paid her by the
world. Her request was in part granted, the wounds in her hands and
feet closed; but that of the side, which was concealed from the eyes
of others, remained open to the hour of her death. Whether the
withdrawal of these visible tokens of the Divine favour was the cause
of the change in the sentiments of her subjects, we are not told; but
we find shortly after, that some among them, disgusted at her refusal
to allow the community to become incorporated with the second order,
rose in rebellion, and even attempted her life. The scandal of this
crime was concealed through the exertions of Lucy herself; but on the
death of her great protector, Duke Hercules, in 1505, the
discontented members of the community recommenced their plots against
her authority and reputation. Then - designs were laid with
consummate art; and at length they publicly accused her of having
been seen in her cell endeavouring to re-open the wounds of her hands
and feet with a knife, in order to impose on the public. Their
evidence was so ably concocted, that they succeeded in gaining over
the heads of the order to their side. Hasty and violent measures were
at once adopted; every apostolic privilege granted by Pope Alexander
was revoked; she was degraded from her office of prioress, deprived
of every right and voice in the community, and placed below the
youngest novice in the house. She was, moreover, forbidden to speak
to any one except the confessor, kept in a strict imprisonment, and
treated in every way as if proved guilty of an infamous imposture.
Nor was this disgrace confined within the enclosure of her own
monastery; it spread as far as her reputation had extended. All Italy
was moved with a transport of indignation against her; the storm of
invective which was raised reached her even in her prison; her name
became a proverb of reproach through Europe; and the nuns whonad been
professed at her hands made their professions over again to the new
prioress, as if their vows formerly made to her had been
invalid.
One can hardly picture a state of desolation equal to
that in which Blessed Lucy now found herself. It was as if this token
of deep abjection and humiliation were required as a confirmation of
her saintliness. If any such proof were indeed needed, it was
furnished by the conduct which she exhibited under this extraordinary
trial. During the whole remaining period of her life, a space of
eight-and-thirty years, she bore her heavy cross without a murmur.
Perhaps its hardest suffering was, to live thus among those whom she
had gathered, together with her own hands, and had sought to lead to
the highest paths of religion, compelled now to be a silent witness
of their wickedness. Her life was a long prayer for her persecutors,
and we are assured that no sorrow or regret ever seemed to shadow the
deep tranquillity of her soul. So far as it touched herself, she took
it as a more precious token of her Spouse's love than all the graces
and favours He had ever heaped on her before. But it is no part of
saintliness to be indifferent to the sins of others; and we can
scarcely fathom the anguish which must hourly have pierced her heart,
at the ingratitude and malignity of her unworthy children.
And
so closed the life which had opened in such a joyous and beautiful
childhood. God indeed knew how to comfort one whom the world had
utterly cast out; and though cut off from the least communication
with any human being, she could scarcely be pitied whilst her
neglected and solitary cell was the resort of celestial visitants and
friends. The reader is possibly a little tired of such tales; yet we
ask his indulgence whilst referring to one of these last incidents in
the life of Blessed Lucy, which we can scarcely omit. There lived at
the same time, at Caramagna in Savoy, another beatified saint of the
same illustrious order, Blessed Catherine of Raconigi. She had never
seen Blessed Lucy; but had heard of her saintly fame, and the lustre
of her life and miracles, and then also of her sufferings and
disgrace. But the saints of God judge not as the world judges; and
Catherine knew by the light of divine illumination the falsehood of
the charges brought against her sister. She had ever longed to see
and speak with her; and now more than ever, when the glitter of the
world's applause was exchanged for its contumely and persecution. The
thought of her sister, never seen with mortal eye, yet so dearly
loved in God, never left her mind; and she prayed earnestly to their
common Lord and Spouse, that He would comfort and support her, and,
if such were His blessed will, satisfy in some way her own intense
desire to hold some kind of intercourse with her even in this life.
One night, as she was thus praying in her cell at Caramagna, her
desires were heard and granted. The same evening Lucy was also alone
and in prayer; and to her in like manner God had revealed the
sanctity of Catherine, kindling in her heart a loving sympathy with
one who, though a stranger in the world's language, had been brought
very near to her heart in the mysteries of the Heart of Jesus. We
cannot say how and in what way it was, but they spent that night
together; but when morning came, and found her again alone as before,
Lucy had received such strength and consolation from her sister's
visit, that, as her biographer says, "she desired new affronts
and persecutions for the glory of that Lord who knew so well how to
comfort and suppoit her in them."
Her last illness came
on her in her sixty-eighth year: for eight-and-thirty years she had
lived stripped of all human consolation; and the malice of her
enemies continued unabated to the last. None came near her, as she
lay weak and dying on her miserable bed. Like her Lord and Master,
they hid their faces from her, counting her as a leper. The ordinary
offices of charity, which they would have done to the poorest beggar
in the streets, they denied to her; she was left to die as she had
lived, alone. But if the world abandoned her, God did not. Her pillow
was smoothed and tended by more than a mother's care. Saint Catherine
did not neglect her charge. It is said she was more than once seen by
the sick-bed, having in her company one of the sisters of the
community, who had departed a short time before, with the reputation
of sanctity; and together they did the office of infirmarians to the
dying Saint. When the last hour drew nigh, she called the sisters
around her bed, and humbly asked their pardon for any scandal she had
given them in life. We do not find one word of justification, or
remonstrance, or even of regret; only some broken words of
exhortation, not to be offended at her imperfection, but to love God
and be detached from creatures, and abide steadfastly by their rule.
At midnight, on the 15th of November, 1544, she felt the moment of
release was at hand; and without any death-struggle or sign of
suffering, she raised her hands and cried, "Up to heaven, up to
heaven!" and so expired, with a smile that remained on the dead
face with so extraordinary a beauty, that none could look on it
without a sentiment of awe, for they knew it was the beauty of one of
God's Saints.
The truth could not longer be concealed; one
supernatural token after another was given to declare the blessedness
of the departed soul. Angelic voices were heard singing above the
cell by all the sisters; an extraordinary perfume filled the cell and
the whole house; and the community, who had probably for the most
part been deceived by one or two in authority, without any malice on
their own part, now loudly insisted on justice being done to the
deceased. It was done, so far as funeral honours can make amends for
a life of cruelty and calumniation. The body was exposed in the
church; and the fickle crowds who had called her an impostor while
living, crowded now to see and touch the sacred remains. The wound in
her side was examined, and found dripping with fresh wet blood; the
sick were cured, and evil spirits cast out, by cloths which had been
placed on the relics.
Four years after the body was taken from
its grave, and found fresh and beautiful as in life. Then it was
again exposed in the church to the veneration of the faithful, who
crowded once more to pay it honour, and were wonder-struck at the
perfume, as of sweet violets, which issued from it, and attached to
every thing which it touched. And it was again disinterred, little
more than a century ago, in 1710, when it presented the same
appearance as before, and the sacred stigmata were observed distinct
and visible to all. On this occasion a part of the body was
translated to Narni, where it now reposes in a magnificent shrine,
and receives extraordinary honours, amid the scene of her childish
devotion to the Christarello. Perhaps, as we read of these honours to
the dead, we may feel they were but poor reparation for the calumnies
and injuries heaped on her while living: or, if we seek to measure
these things in the balance of the sanctuary, we can believe that to
her blessed spirit now, those long years of abandonment and
desolation, which cut her off from all communion with this earth for
more than half her mortal life, were a far more precious gift than
all the shrines, and funeral honours, and popular veneration, which
the world in its tardy repentance was moved to give her.
She
was finally beatified by Pope Benedict XIII towards the middle of the
last century.
