by Paul Gallico
THIS simple and sincere story of the faith—and determination—of a little Italian boy from modern Assisi has, like its predecessor in the same genre, The Snow Goose, gained the admiration and affection of many thousands of readers. First published in 1951, it has sold close on 150,000 copies in the original English edition alone. Filmed under the title Never Take No For An Answer it has made one of the best loved pictures of recent years.
This new edition is illustrated with 28 four-color drawings by David Knight. They catch admirably the touching charm of Paul Gallico’s story.
“All our god-children who can read may be given The Small Miracle . . . The book will also convert unconverted parents if not to Christianity at least to greater charity. It is a story of a small boy in modern Assisi . . . His love and livelihood are a donkey named Violetta. This donkey falls ill and the small miracle is the way the boy obtains the Pope’s permission to take his donkey into the church where the bones of St. Francis are buried. It is told by Paul Gallico with exquisite touchingness and no waste of words.”
JOHN BETJEMAN (Daily Telegraph)
“Has the magical touch of The Snow Goose . . . written with great craftsmanship and simplicity it is a moving, sincere and human story.”
THE QUEEN MAGAZINE
First published by
MICHAEL JOSEPH LTD
26 Bloomsbury Street
London, W.C.1
NOVEMBER 1951
This edition first published
1953
To
ST. FRANCIS
a man among
saints
The beautiful setting of Assisi is clearly essential for the purposes of this story. But the characters exist only in the imagination of the author and are not based upon any real persons. They are delineated as they are for purely literary reasons.
T H E S M A L L
M I R A C L E
APPROACHING Assisi via the chalky, dusty road that twists its way up Monte Subasio, now revealing, now concealing the exquisite little town, as it winds its way through olive and cypress groves, you eventually reach a division where your choice lies between an upper and a lower route.
If you select the latter, you soon find yourself entering Assisi through the twelfth-century archway of the denticulated door of St. Francis. But if, seduced by the clear air, the wish to mount even closer to the canopy of blue Italian sky and expose still more of the delectable view of the rich Umbrian valley below, you choose the upper way, you and your vehicle eventually become inextricably entangled in the welter of humanity, oxen, goats, bawling calves, mules, fowl, children, pigs, booths and carts gathered at the market place outside the walls.
It is here you would be most likely to encounter Pepino, with his donkey Violetta, hard at work, turning his hand to anything whereby a small boy and a strong, willing beast of burden could win for themselves the crumpled ten and twenty lira notes needed to buy food and pay for lodging in the barn of Niccolo the stableman.
Pepino and Violetta were everything to each other. They were a familiar sight about Assisi and its immediate environs—the thin brown boy, ragged and barefooted, with the enormous dark eyes, large ears, and close-cropped, upstanding hair, and the dust-colored little donkey with the Mona Lisa smile.
Pepino was ten years old and an orphan, his father, mother and near relatives having been killed in the war. In self-reliance, wisdom and demeanor he was, of course, much older, a circumstance aided by his independence, for Pepino was an unusual orphan in that having a heritage he need rely on no one. Pepino’s heritage was Violetta.
She was a good, useful and docile donkey, alike as any other with friendly, gentle eyes, soft taupe-colored muzzle, and long, pointed brown ears, with one exception that distinguished her. Violetta had a curious expression about the corners of her mouth, as though she were smiling gently over something that amused or pleased her. Thus, no matter what kind of work, or how much she was asked to do, she always appeared to be performing it with a smile of quiet satisfaction. The combination of Pepino’s dark lustrous eyes and Violetta’s smile was so harmonious that people favored them and they were able not only to earn enough for their keep but, aided and advised by Father Damico, the priest of their parish, to save a little as well.
There were all kinds of things they could do—carry loads of wood or water, deliver purchases carried in the panniers that thumped against Violetta’s sides, hire out to help pull a cart mired in the mud, aid in the olive harvest, and even, occasionally, help some citizen who was too encumbered with wine to reach his home on foot, by means of a four-footed taxi with Pepino walking beside to see that the drunkard did not fall off.
But this was not the only reason for the love that existed between boy and donkey, for Violetta was more than just the means of his livelihood. She was mother to him, and father, brother, playmate, companion, and comfort. At night, in the straw of Niccolo’s stable, Pepino slept curled up close to her when it was cold, his head pillowed on her neck.
Since the mountainside was a rough world for a small boy, he was sometimes beaten or injured, and then he could creep to her for comfort and Violetta would gently nuzzle his bruises. When there was joy in his heart, he shouted songs into her waving ears; when he was lonely and hurt, he could lean his head against her soft, warm flank and cry out his tears.
On his part, he fed her, watered her, searched her for ticks and parasites, picked stones from her hoofs, scratched and groomed and curried her, lavished affection on her, particularly when they were alone, while in public he never beat her with the donkey stick more than was necessary. For this treatment Violetta made a god of Pepino, and repaid him with loyalty, obedience and affection.
Thus, when one day in the early spring Violetta fell ill, it was the most serious thing that had ever happened to Pepino. It began first with an unusual lethargy that would respond neither to stick nor caresses, nor the young, strident voice urging her on. Later Pepino observed other symptoms and a visible loss of weight. Her ribs, once so well padded, began to show through her sides. But most distressing, either through a change in the conformation of her head, due to growing thinner or because of the distress of the illness, Violetta lost her enchanting and lovable smile.
Drawing upon his carefully hoarded reserves of lira notes and parting with several of the impressive denomination of a hundred, Pepino called in Dr. Bartoli, the vet.
The vet examined her in good faith, dosed her, and tried his best; but she did not improve and, instead, continued to lose weight and grow weaker. He hummed and hawed then and said, “Well, now, it is hard to say. It might be one thing, such as the bite of a fly new to this district, or another, such as a germ settling in the intestine.” Either way, how could one tell? There had been a similar case in Foligno and another in a far-away town. He recommended resting the beast and feeding her lightly. If the illness passed from her and God willed, she might live. Otherwise, she would surely die and there would be an end to her suffering.
After he had gone away, Pepino put his cropped head on Violetta’s heaving flank and wept unrestrainedly. But then, when the storm, induced by the fear of losing his only companion in the world, had subsided, he knew what he must do. If there was no help for Violetta on earth, the appeal must be registered above. His plan was nothing less than to take Violetta into the crypt beneath the lower church of the Basilica of St. Francis, where rested the remains of the Saint who had so dearly loved God’s creations, including all the feathered and the four-footed brothers and sisters who served Him. There he would beg St. Francis to heal her. Pepino had no doubt that the Saint would do so when he saw Violetta.
These things Pepino knew from Father Damico, who had a way of talking about St. Francis as though he were a living pe
rson who might still be encountered in his frayed cowl, bound with a hemp cord at the middle, merely by turning a corner of the Main Square in Assisi or by walking down one of the narrow, cobbled streets.
And besides, there was a precedent. Giani, his friend, the son of Niccolo the stableman, had taken his sick kitten into the crypt and asked St. Francis to heal her, and the cat had got well—at least half well, anyway, for her hind legs still dragged a little; but at least she had not died. Pepino felt that if Violetta were to die, it would be the end of everything for him.
Thereupon, with considerable difficulty, he persuaded the sick and shaky donkey to rise, and with urgings and caresses and minimum use of the stick drove her through the crooked streets of Assisi and up the hill to the Basilica of St. Francis. At the beautiful twin portal of the lower church he respectfully asked Fra Bernard, who was on duty there, for permission to take Violetta down to St. Francis, so that she might be made well again.
Fra Bernard was a new monk, and, calling Pepino a young and impious scoundrel, ordered him and his donkey to be off. It was strictly forbidden to bring livestock into the church, and even to think of taking an ass into the crypt of St. Francis was a desecration. And besides, how did he imagine she would get down there when the narrow, winding staircase was barely wide enough to accommodate humans in single file, much less four-footed animals? Pepino must be a fool as well as a shiftless rascal.
As ordered, Pepino retreated from the portal, his arm about Violetta’s neck, and bethought himself of what he must do next to succeed in his purpose, for while he was disappointed at the rebuff he had received, he was not at all discouraged.
Despite the tragedy that had struck Pepino’s early life and robbed him of his family, he really considered himself a most fortunate boy, compared with many, since he had acquired not only a heritage to aid him in earning a living but also an important precept by which to live.
This maxim, the golden key to success, had been left with Pepino, together with bars of chocolate, chewing gum, peanut brittle, soap, and other delights, by a corporal in the United States Army who had, in the six months he had been stationed in the vicinity of Assisi, been Pepino’s demigod and hero. His name was Francis Xavier O’Halloran, and what he told Pepino before he departed out of his life for ever was, “If you want to get ahead in this world, kid, don’t never take no for an answer. Get it?” Pepino never forgot this important advice.
He thought now that his next step was clear; nevertheless, he went first to his friend and adviser, Father Damico, for confirmation.
Father Damico, who had a broad head, lustrous eyes, and shoulders shaped as though they had been especially designed to support the burdens laid upon them by his parishioners, said, “You are within your rights, my son, in taking your request to the lay Supervisor and it lies within his power to grant or refuse it.”
There was no malice in the encouragement he thus gave Pepino, but it was also true that he was not loathe to see the Supervisor brought face to face with an example of pure and innocent faith. For in his private opinion that worthy man was too much concerned with the twin churches that formed the Basilica and the crypt as a tourist attraction. He, Father Damico, could not see why the child should not have his wish, but, of course, it was out of his jurisdiction. He was, however, curious about how the Supervisor would react, even though he thought he knew in advance.
However, he did not impart his fears to Pepino and merely called after him as he was leaving, “And if the little one cannot be got in from above, there is another entrance from below, through the old church, only it has been walled up for a hundred years. But it could be opened. You might remind the Supervisor when you see him. He knows where it is.”
Pepino thanked him and went back alone to the Basilica and the monastery attached to it and asked permission to see the Supervisor.
This personage was an accessible man, and even though he was engaged in a conversation with the Bishop, he sent for Pepino, who walked into the cloister gardens where he waited respectfully for the two great men to finish.
The two dignitaries were walking up and down, and Pepino wished it were the Bishop who was to say yea or nay to his request, as he looked the kindlier of the two, the Supervisor appearing to have more the expression of a merchant. The boy pricked up his ears, because, as it happened, they were speaking of St. Francis, and the Bishop was just remarking with a sigh, “He has been gone too long from this earth. The lesson of his life is plain to all who can read. But who in these times will pause to do so?”
The Supervisor said, “His tomb in the crypt attracts many to Assisi. But in a Holy Year, relics are even better. If we but had the tongue of the Saint, or a lock of his hair, or a fingernail.”
The Bishop had a far-away look in his eyes, and he was shaking his head gently. “It is a message we are in need of, my dear Supervisor, a message from a great heart that would speak to us across the gap of seven centuries to remind us of The Way.” And here he paused and coughed, for he was a polite man and noticed that Pepino was waiting.
The Supervisor turned also and said, “Ah yes, my son, what is it that I can do for you?”
Pepino said, “Please, sir, my donkey Violetta is very sick. The Doctor Bartoli has said he can do nothing more and perhaps she will die. Please, I would like permission to take her into the tomb of Saint Francis and ask him to cure her. He loved all animals, and particularly little donkeys. I am sure he will make her well.”
The Supervisor looked shocked. “A donkey. In the crypt. However did you come to that idea?”
Pepino explained about Giani and his sick kitten, while the Bishop turned away to hide a smile.
But the Supervisor was not smiling. He asked, “How did this Giani succeed in smuggling a kitten into the tomb?”
Since it was all over, Pepino saw no reason for not telling, and replied, “Under his coat, sir.”
The Supervisor made a mental note to warn the brothers to keep a sharper eye out for small boys or other persons with suspicious-looking lumps under their outer clothing.
“Of course we can have no such goings on,” he said. “The next thing you know, everyone would be coming, bringing a sick dog, or an ox, or a goat, or even a pig. And then where should we end up? A veritable sty.”
“But, sir,” Pepino pleaded, “no one need know. We would come and go so very quickly.”
The Supervisor’s mind played. There was something touching about the boy—the bullet head, the enormous eyes, the jug-handle cars. And yet, what if he permitted it and the donkey then died, as seemed most likely if Dr. Bartoli had said there was no further hope? Word was sure to get about, and the shrine would suffer from it. He wondered what the Bishop was thinking and how he would solve the problem.
He equivocated: “And besides, even if we were to allow it, you would never be able to get your donkey around the turn at the bottom of the stairs. So, you see, it is quite impossible.”
“But there is another entrance,” Pepino said. “From the old church. It has not been used for a long time, but it could be opened just this once—couldn’t it?”
The Supervisor was indignant. “What are you saying—destroy church property? The entrance has been walled up for over a century, ever since the new crypt was built.”
The Bishop thought he saw a way out and said gently to the boy, “Why do you not go home and pray to Saint Francis to assist you? If you open your heart to him and have faith, he will surely hear you.”
“But it wouldn’t be the same,” Pepino cried, and his voice was shaking with the sobs that wanted to come. “I must take her where Saint Francis can see her. She isn’t like any other old donkey—Violetta has the sweetest smile. She does not smile any more since she has been so ill. But perhaps she would, just once more for Saint Francis. And when he saw it he would not be able to resist her, and he would make her well. I know he would!”
The Supervisor knew his ground now. He said, “I am sorry, my son, but the answer is no.”
But even through his despair and the bitter tears he shed as he went away, Pepino knew that if Violetta was to live he must not take no for an answer.
“Who is there, then?” Pepino asked of Father Damico later. “Who is above the Supervisor and my lord the Bishop who might tell them to let me take Violetta into the crypt?”
Father Damico’s stomach felt cold as he thought of the dizzying hierarchy between Assisi and Rome. Nevertheless, he explained as best he could, concluding with, “And at the top is His Holiness, the Pope himself. Surely his heart would be touched by what has happened if you were able to tell him, for he is a great and good man. But he is busy with important weighty affairs, Pepino, and it would be impossible for him to see you.”
Pepino went back to Niccolo’s stable, where he ministered to Violetta, fed and watered her and rubbed her muzzle a hundred times. Then he withdrew his money from the stone jar buried under the straw and counted it. He had almost three hundred lire. A hundred of it he set aside and promised to his friend Giani if he would look after Violetta, while Pepino was gone, as if she were his own. Then he patted her once more, brushed away the tears that had started again at the sight of how thin she was, put on his jacket, and went out on the high road, where, using his thumb as he had learned from Corporal Francis Xavier O’Halloran, he got a lift in a lorry going to Foligno and the main road. He was on his way to Rome to see the Holy Father.
NEVER had any small boy looked quite so infinitesimal and forlorn as Pepino standing in the boundless and almost deserted, since it was early in the morning, St. Peter’s Square. Everything towered over him—the massive dome of St. Peter’s, the obelisk of Caligula, the Bernini colonnades. Everything contrived to make him look pinched and miserable in his bare feet, torn trousers, and ragged jacket. Never was a boy more overpowered, lonely, and frightened, or carried a greater burden of unhappiness in his heart.
