THE SICILIAN’S TALE

THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE

Once on a time, some centuries ago,
  In the hot sunshine two Franciscan friars
Wended their weary way with footsteps slow
  Back to their convent, whose white walls and spires
Gleamed on the hillside like a patch of snow;
  Covered with dust they were, and torn by briers,
And bore like sumpter-mules upon their backs
The badge of poverty, their beggar’s sacks.

The first was Brother Anthony, a spare
  And silent man, with pallid cheeks and thin,
Much given to vigils, penance, fasting, prayer,
  Solemn and gray, and worn with discipline,
As if his body but white ashes were,
  Heaped on the living coals that glowed within;
A simple monk, like many of his day,
Whose instinct was to listen and obey.

A different man was Brother Timothy,
  Of larger mould and of a coarser paste;
A rubicund and stalwart monk was he,
  Broad in the shoulders, broader in the waist,
Who often filled the dull refectory
  With noise by which the convent was disgraced,
But to the mass-book gave but little heed,
By reason he had never learned to read.

Now, as they passed the outskirts of a wood,
  They saw, with mingled pleasure and surprise,
Fast tethered to a tree an ass, that stood
  Lazily winking his large, limpid eyes. 
The farmer Gilbert of that neighborhood
  His owner was, who, looking for supplies
Of fagots, deeper in the wood had strayed,
Leaving his beast to ponder in the shade.

As soon as Brother Timothy espied
  The patient animal, he said:  “Good-lack! 
Thus for our needs doth Providence provide;
  We’ll lay our wallets on the creature’s back.” 
This being done, he leisurely untied
  From head and neck the halter of the jack,
And put it round his own, and to the tree
Stood tethered fast as if the ass were he.

And, bursting forth into a merry laugh,
  He cried to Brother Anthony:  “Away! 
And drive the ass before you with your staff;
  And when you reach the convent you may say
You left me at a farm, half tired and half
  Ill with a fever, for a night and day,
And that the farmer lent this ass to bear
Our wallets, that are heavy with good fare.”

Now Brother Anthony, who knew the pranks
  Of Brother Timothy, would not persuade
Or reason with him on his quirks and cranks,
  But, being obedient, silently obeyed;
And, smiting with his staff the ass’s flanks,
  Drove him before him over hill and glade,
Safe with his provend to the convent gate,
Leaving poor Brother Timothy to his fate.

Then Gilbert, laden with fagots for his fire,
  Forth issued from the wood, and stood aghast
To see the ponderous body of the friar
  Standing where he had left his donkey last. 
Trembling he stood, and dared not venture nigher,
  But stared, and gaped, and crossed himself full fast;
For, being credulous and of little wit,
He thought it was some demon from the pit.