Blessed Clara Gambacorti

A few days after the election that placed him at the head of the republic, Pietro Gambacorti, to better secure his new power, declared before the assembled people that he was betrothing his daugh ter Thora to S Simon de Massa Husband of Claire, died prematurely. imon de Massa, a young nobleman of the city, and taking Thora's hand, he placed it in Simon's. The latter was then fourteen years old; he looked at his sweet and charming fiancée with a proud and satisfied eye. Both families applauded, the people burst into loud cheers; only Thora turned pale, and when Simon, at his father's invitation, leaned toward her, Thora innocently held out her cheek, saying: "I will ask the good God to grant me the grace to love you, if I am to be your wife." "So that will be difficult for you?" asked Simon. "I do not know if God wills it," added Thora.

Indeed, to please God and do His will was already Thora's sole preoccupation. Thora's family was concerned only with maintaining and extending its power and fixing in its house that fluctuating authority which, in the era to which we refer, passed from hand to hand, from faction to faction in the Italian cities. But the young fiancée of Simon de Massa remained a stranger to all these thoughts of war and ambition; she continued to be humble, simple, and gentle. For her, the true destiny and the only happiness here below was to advance in virtue and to purify the inner sanctuary where, according to her express word, God Himself wishes to dwell. She loved God ardently, and after God, she loved only her parents and the poor, the privileged representatives of Christ. One could see her, still very young, spending entire nights in prayer, praying for long hours before the tabernacle, and sighing at the sight of that little golden door that did not yet open for her. Her greatest reward, her sweetest relaxation, the one she obtained from her father through her childlike graces, was to go and visit the poor and the sick and to bring them alms less precious than the smile and compassion with which she accompanied them.

The brilliant festivities of the Gambacorti palace overwhelmed her with fatigue and sadness; but the joy of the angels radiated on her beautiful face when she approached the poor of Jesus Christ. God placed on her lips words that were always consoling, which raised the souls of her protégés above the earth and disposed them to bear the weight of the cross without murmuring. Everyone was astonished at this precocious wisdom, and Thora's companions recounted with an admiration mixed with dread that, like Catherine Benincasa (Saint Catherine of Siena), she sought out lepers, a nd that she had been seen on her knees washing a Catherine Benincasa (sainte Catherine de Sienne) Dominican mystic saint to whom Agnes is compared. nd kissing their sores!

Simon de Massa rejoiced at the praises he heard everywhere about Thora, for he loved her, and he awaited with impatience the time when he could marry her. The years fled, Thora was nearly fifteen, and the anniversary of her birth was set to be that of her wedding. She prepared for it by fervently imploring God for the graces that make chaste wives and blessed mothers, and a hair shirt was hidden under her rich wedding clothes just as it had often been hidden under her girlhood garments.

Her union with Simon de Massa did not slow her ardor for works of the most admirable charity. A most touching trait is cited in this regard. This young and graceful woman would walk every day toward a poor house, where a sick woman lay on a pallet, her face fetid and repulsive, devoured by a hideous ulcer. There she would soothe the unfortunate woman either with tender words, or by preparing her food, or by tidying her bed, or by dressing the horrible wound, and finally, she would not leave this room until she had gently brought her fresh and young face close to that soiled and infected face, as if she wanted to share the unfortunate woman's illness and lighten her burdens by participating in her pains.

Disdaining all finery, she would deceive her husband and her parents with pious artifices in order to give the poor even her clothes and her wedding jewels. One day, to those who reproached her for having given away even her clothing, she replied with animation that she still had the most beautiful of all garments: that of charity. If sometimes her face lost its habitual cheerfulness, if she was seen sad and pensive, it was only because she had nothing left for her poor, whose needs worried and afflicted her; but her charity was so active and so ingenious that she rarely lacked help for the unfortunate.

Constrained to share her affection for God with the husband to whom her father had united her by sacred bonds, she nevertheless strove to offer a pure and whole love to her heavenly spouse. When she united herself to Him through prayer, she always removed her wedding ring from her finger; thus making a sweet illusion for her heart, she could say to her Jesus, with the virgins, that she was His, His alone, and that she shared her love with no other.

Few months had passed when young Simon of Massa died, struck by a sudden illness. This death overwhelmed his family and the one to which he had just been allied with grief. Thora also wept for him, but in her sorrow, she understood that her earthly ties were broken. The Lord was calling her to Himself alone; she was no longer to serve the ambitious plans of her family. She wished to inform her parents of her feelings and secret thoughts through an outward sign. She cut her long hair, cast off the garments of silk and fine wool that had long hidden the habit of penance, and appeared thus dressed in the midst of her family, who were already discussing the new alliance they wished to propose to her. “You are weeping for your husband, my daughter,” her father said to her, “I have wept for him with you, but another, just as amiable and just as wealthy, seeks your hand in marriage, and before many months have passed, he will lead you to the altar.” Thora shook her head and replied: “Another, indeed, calls me to Him, but it is not a mortal spouse; another seeks your alliance, my father, do not reject Him, for this spouse is Jesus Christ Himself.” “You wish to become a nun?” “Yes, my lord and father, and I come to solicit your blessing. You are what I cherish most in the world, and yet I must leave you, for I have heard the voice that says to those who weep: ‘The Master is here, and He is calling for you!’” At these words, spoken with strong and calm resolution, Pietro Gambacorti and his sons cried out in anger, for Thora’s hand was intended to procure them new friends and stronger alliances.

Thora, having exhausted prayers and entreaties in vain to obtain her father’s consent, had herself secretly received into a convent of Poor Clares. There, she donned the habit of penance of Saint Francis and left behind her secular name to take that of Claire, the humble Virgin of Assisi . She believed herself safe in t Claire, l'humble Vierge d'Assise Companion of Maria Mancini and daughter of Pietro Gambacorti. his sacred asylum and was gently abandoning herself to the transports of divine love, when one day she saw the nuns, her companions, running toward her, breathless and distraught, who, without saying a word, took her and carried her in an instant into the arms of armed men gathered at the convent door, led by one of Claire’s brothers. Recognizing him, she understood what had happened; she saw all her hopes dashed, but her soul was not cast down. Her efforts had failed, her plans were overturned, but her strength was not defeated. She turned to this brother who was ordering her with fury to follow him. “Kneel down beside me,” she said with great sweetness, “and pray with me that I may be able to bear the blow that strikes me; do not doubt it, I will follow you, I do not wish to resist the will of the Lord.” But this inhuman brother would not be softened; he dragged her with brutality toward the paternal palace. They locked her in a room

as if in a prison that was to last until she had finally yielded to the desires of her family. She was left in complete abandonment; three whole days passed without her being given any food, and that which they finally decided to bring her was coarse and insufficient. She was granted neither the opportunity to attend the Holy Sacrifice, nor to deposit the secrets of her conscience at the tribunal of penance, nor to nourish her soul with the bread that makes the strong. If anyone entered her prison, it was to torment her in order to lead her to yield to her father’s wishes.

Her celestial Spouse, to test the strength of her love even further, abandoned her after having for some time filled her with those interior sweetnesses which, for just souls, bring paradise down to earth; she found herself in the anguish of a desolate aridity and fears all the more cruel because all spiritual help was lacking to her. In the midst of these cruel trials, her strength did not falter for an instant. We know from the contemporary author of her life that she constantly blessed the God who had found her worthy to endure something for His love; her lips never uttered any complaint against those who treated her so harshly. In the midst of the rigors of her captivity, it was sweet for her to repeat what Agnes said in the ecstasy of her love: That she kept the faith given to Him alone, to whom she had united herself with such ardor, invariable; and while suffering, she added: “May my body perish before it pleases any eyes other than those of my Jesus!”

Finally, the God whom she served with such love allowed this great and constant courage to soften her father's heart. After five months, she was free to follow her vocation; an interior attraction, or as others say, a revelation, directed her this time to a house of Dom inican nuns. Dominicaines Mendicant religious order founded by Saint Dominic. Her father, having completely returned to better sentiments, had a convent built for her, which took the name of t couvent, qui prit le nom de Sainte-Croix Monastery founded by Pietro Gambacorti for his daughter Clare. he Holy Cross. She served God there in the strictest observance, or rather, as she used to say, she reigned there with Him: cui servire, regnare est. She kept the name of Clare, and thirteen years later, she was named prioress. In this pious asylum, the young nun tasted that inexpressible rest, that delicious serenity of souls who feel placed in their vocation, and who understand that they are obeying, fully and without reserve, the designs that Providence has formed for them. This certainty is the first foundation of earthly happiness. Clare, in embracing religious life, resembled those exiles who, after a long absence, return to their country; the sights, the landscapes, the customs are familiar to them, their mouths which once stammered foreign languages, joyfully seize the native idiom again; it was thus for Clare. Exiled in the world, a stranger to its ideas and its language, she found herself in her true homeland, in the midst of this blessed enclosure where Jesus Christ reigned alone. Everything she saw, everything she heard was the echo of her own feelings, of her own thoughts; there, one loved God as she wished to love Him; there, one trampled underfoot the delights of the world that she had known and despised; there, one aspired to heaven, the sole object of her desires; she said with the king-prophet: "How amiable are your tabernacles, O Lord, God of hosts! My flesh and my heart are ravished with joy at the thought of the living God!..." Her soul, flooded with the balm of the most vivid piety, overflowed like a cup too full and poured out around her floods of charity and tenderness.

Sheltered in the harbor, she did not forget those who, remaining in the midst of the stormy sea of the world, were suffering, and who had always had such a large share in her affections. Despite the great poverty of her convent, she still helped the indigent through the abundant alms she solicited and obtained for them. The afflicted came to find the one who had received from heaven the gift of happy and consoling words, and her vigilant compassion, which forgot none of human miseries, extended even to foundlings, then so neglected. She occupied herself actively with them; from the depths of the cloister, she found them benefactors, and managed to open for these poor abandoned creatures an asylum that still exists, and this by an act of the most generous renunciation.

A pious woman, who already in Pisa was gathering and raising several orphans in her house, being on her deathbed, recommended her hospital to our Blessed one. Clare accepted this onerous legacy immediately and with good grace. She counted on a rich, pious man without children to help her in this enterprise, and she begged him to dedicate himself with his fortune to the care of abandoned children. He declared that he could not, because he had already disposed of his goods in favor of the monastery where the Blessed one lived, and of which she was already superior. What will the prioress, the founder of the monastery, decide? She sees, on one hand, the needs of her companions, many of whom are infirm; she had learned to repeat often the words of the Savior by which one asks God for the necessities she often lacked; on the other hand, she hears the cries of the poor who knock continually at the convent door for their daily needs; perhaps also a feeling of interest and affection will speak to her heart for this asylum of piety that she founded and order her to ensure its existence. But no, the great voice of charity speaks to her louder than any other; without hesitation, without regret, but with a face cheerful and shining with a holy and heavenly joy, she pronounces her absolute renunciation in favor of the poor abandoned children.

From childhood, the Blessed Clare mortified her innocent body with all kinds of penance. With infinite art, she applied herself to overcoming hunger to accustom herself to a fast that was almost continuous. But when she had entered the cloister, her love for penance took an even greater flight; the worst and most common foods were those of her choice, and that not being enough for her, she often covered them with ashes. Although subject to stomach weakness, she usually fed on the most repulsive leftovers of her companions; she devoted herself, despite her poor health, to the most tiring and abject occupations and tasks of the convent, taking them as exercises of penance. She never wore anything but the clothes abandoned by her sisters as too worn out. In her love for poverty, she could not understand how one could approve these words of Solomon: "Give me neither poverty nor riches, but grant me what is necessary for me to live," finding, for her part, the virtue of poverty only where the necessary was lacking.

We know that, as a child, the Blessed Clare already had the custom of spending entire nights in prayer; that is why in her convent she was given a separate cell so that she could freely watch and pray without disturbing the rest of the nuns. During this holy exercise, she shed torrents of tears that had their source in her ardent love for God. Her tears had great value before the Lord, and many visible signs were proof of this from the first time of her novitiate. One day, her mistress approaches with slow and silent steps, believing that Clare was overtaken by sleep; she places her hand on her shoulder to wake her, but the innocent child turns around with a serene face; the mistress remains motionless and without saying a word; she has understood that Clare was in ecstasy, for her novice remains motionless. A penetrating and sweet odor of paradise exhales all around the young nun. This sweet odor of heaven very often filled the places where Clare prayed and remained in her clothes long after her death.

We will not speak of all the virtues of the Blessed Clare. We will say nothing of her humility, of her obedience; of the vigilance and prudence she displayed while being superior; of the observance, silence, and severity she knew how to establish as founder of her convent: these pages would have no end. She had given this convent the name of Holy Cross. She wanted, through this establishment, to procure for her Jesus tender and faithful spouses who would sing His praises without ceasing; she spread around her such vivid sparks of divine love that all those with whom she spoke were set ablaze by them. No one left her without having become better; all yielded to the influence of her exhortations; sinners were converted. Abuses were reformed; practices of piety were established; in several monasteries, the abandoned rule was brought back into force; other convents were founded, through her inspiration, in various parts of Italy, with stricter observance and rigorous discipline. It was the example of Clare that encouraged the Blessed John Dominic, later Archbishop of Ragusa, to attempt in the province of Lombardy a reform that had such success, as the history of the Order of Saint Dominic recounts. But, while exercising so many works of mercy within and without, Clare, like the good angels, never lost sight o f the face of the Lord. bienheureux Jean Dominic Archbishop of Ragusa, reformer of the Dominican Order encouraged by Clare. Prayer was her strength and her inspiration, and she prepared herself, at the foot of the tabernacle, to answer the Lord who questions the souls He loves through trial.

While Blessed Clare lived peacefully and hidden, her homeland was threatened by great dangers. Foreigners cast covetous eyes upon the Republic of Pisa, upon its fertile territory, upon this city of eighty churches or chapels, so rich in sumptuous monuments. Galeazzo Visconti, Duke of Milan, sought to envelop this beautiful city in the web of his conquests; his soldiers had not yet penetrated the walls of Pisa, but his gold had found greedy and infamous hands open to receive it. Pietro Gambacorti believed himself assured of the power he had held for twenty-four years, and, in his blind confidence, he did not see the enemy of his race and his country rising beside him. Iacopo Appiano, his friend, his adopted son, the confidant of his most intimate Iacopo Appiano Traitor and murderer of the Gambacorti family, usurper of power in Pisa. thoughts, had for some years maintained guilty relations with Galeazzo Visconti. Invested with the highest offices of the Republic, full of talent, skill, and insinuation, it had not been difficult for him to secure a great number of creatures, and to undermine in secret the credit and power of Gambacorti. In vain a devoted friend had tried to warn the latter; he had replied by shaking his head: "Appiano will not betray his old friend!... I have lived seventy years without suspicion, do not come to alter my faith in friendship."

This noble and holy confidence was betrayed. Muffled rumors had spread through the city and had reached the monastery of the Daughters of Saint Dominic. It was known that the power and perhaps the life of Gambacorti were threatened. Clare carried her sorrow and her dread to the foot of the altar, her usual refuge and asylum. Suddenly, tumultuous cries rising from the street and coming to disturb the peace of the sanctuary made her shudder. The angry voice of the great seas, the strident furies of the storm in the clouds are less terrible than the noise of popular riots. Clare trembled, she could no longer pray with her lips, but her tears, eloquent prayers! told God of the deep sufferings of her soul. The clamors rose ever more threatening and implacable; she distinguished through these vociferations sinister cries: "Death to Gambacorti! long live, long live Appiano." — "O my father," she cried, "what a frightful death threatens your whitened head! O my God! my God! save him... or, if he must fall under the blows of his enemies, receive the victim in heaven and forgive his executioners!" She rose to go and join her sisters, whom she knew were alarmed for her. At the moment when Clare entered among them, the clamors of the street redoubled and the cries of: "Death! death! kill him! strike him! no mercy!" increased the terror of their hearts. At the same moment, redoubled cries shook the door: Clare ran to it, and, through the grille that opened onto the street, she saw a populace drunk with fury, wine, and blood, pursuing like an ardent pack a man already wounded. The latter managed to cling to the bars of the monastery door; she recognized this man: it was her brother Lorenzo! "Asylum," he cried in a failing voice, and recognizing Clare, he said to her: "My sister, our father has just been massacred by the assassins of Appiano; one of our brothers has per ished w Lorenzo Brother of Clare, murdered beneath the monastery walls. ith him; this ungrateful people pursues me and also wants my death. Asylum! my sister, asylum!" Now, this monastery did not have the right of asylum; the enclosure was strictly forbidden to men. Clare, by opening the doors of her convent, would have gravely infringed the rules of her Order and compromised the life and honor of her sisters. The people would not have failed to penetrate the monastery to pursue their victim there, and in their fury, they would have respected nothing. What a cruel alternative! The duty is evident, but flesh and blood cry out. A terrible struggle broke out in the soul of the superior. What will she decide? The strong woman is subjected to a harsh test; will her courage fail? The portress shakes her keys, and carrying them toward the lock, cries: "Must I open, Mother? — No, replied Clare, this door must remain closed!... Lorenzo, I cannot open an asylum for you!..." Lorenzo understood; he replied only with a sadly resigned look, he let himself fall back, he moved away. But two steps away, the furious horde rejoined him and struck him with ten mortal blows!... At the moment he was expiring, Clare had fallen as if dead into the arms of her terrified sisters. It was the most heroic act of her life. Natural law imposes absolute duties; the law created by men, no. She sacrificed everything to her duty; her will had not faltered for a single instant, but the trial was too harsh for her heart, and nature, in the end, reclaimed its rights.

Pietro Gambacorti and two of his sons had succumbed to the stray blows of Appiano, and Claire, struck to the heart, walked with hurried steps toward the tomb. The traitor's hand had struck her by striking her family. Her body was overwhelmed by the weight of illness, but her memory and reason retained their vivacity, and her sisters noticed that she did not lose the memory of the misfortunes of her house; for, whenever one entered her cell, she was always found in tears, turning a painful and resigned gaze toward the crucifix. Her cheeks were marked by a livid pallor; but the name of Appiano, when pronounced in her presence, colored her forehead, and a silent indignation could then be read in her eyes. However, she never spoke of this man. Her death, it was thought, was near. She took no food, and life seemed ready to abandon this exhausted body; she herself believed she was at the moment of appearing before the sovereign Judge, and she asked for the convent's confessor. He came, she confessed at length and with many tears; the sisters who served her, upon returning to her, were astonished that the last confession of an innocent and mortified life should be accompanied by such bitter sorrow. They told her so. Claire smiled faintly, and asked them to prepare in her room the altar where the holy Host, which the priest had gone to fetch, was to rest. Then, with joined hands and a burning heart, she waited. Soon the sound of a bell announced the approach of the Viaticum of the dying; all the nuns, a torch in hand, preceded and followed the divine Spouse of their souls. When Claire perceived Him, her dying eyes revived; she raised herself on her seat, and after a moment of collected silence, she said aloud: "My sisters, in the presence of my God whom I am about to receive, for the last time no doubt, I declare that I forgive Iacopo Appiano and his kin for the evil he has done to my family... I forgive him with all my heart! I abjure all resentment and I pray the Lord to be merciful and helpful to him!... Remember my last words: I have no more enemies on earth..."

Upon finishing these words, she raised a calm and tender gaze toward the holy Ciborium, and when she had received the bread of the strong, everyone noticed that her forehead seemed less pale and that the signs of approaching death seemed to fade from her face. She remained for a long time plunged in deep recollection, a peaceful smile lighting up her features: the strong woman was resting in her victory, and her soul, calmed by the forgetting of injuries and the sweet influence of mercy, enjoyed without obstacle the presence of the consoling God. Seeing her a little revived, the sub-prioress asked her if she would not like to try to take a little food. Claire replied: "I would willingly take something to strengthen myself; but I would have, in this regard, a request to address to you. — Speak, my dear mother, you will be obeyed. — Well! I would wish that someone went on my behalf to Iacopo Appiano, and that he be asked to send me a dish from his table, just as my poor and beloved father used to do when I was ill... It seems to me that this dish would heal me." The sub-prioress's face expressed deep astonishment: "My mother," she cried, "are you thinking? Appiano, the murderer..." — "Do not renew these memories, my sister, they have been only too vivid in my soul... I loved those who are no more as much as any daughter and sister has ever loved, judge what I felt for their assassin! But the victorious grace of Jesus has subdued my heart, I want, like our good Master, to love and forgive. Alas! why hate? we are on earth for so little time. Yes, my daughter, the Lord reserves vengeance for Himself... Appiano will not escape it... Ah! let us rather pray that he repents and that we may all be reunited in heaven!"

At this cry escaped from the heart of the Saint, the sub-prioress could no longer resist; she recognized in it the divine inspiration. A servant was immediately sent, and arrived at Appiano's house at mealtime; he delivered his message. The new lord of Pisa remained confounded by such unexpected words: he turned pale and fell silent. His wife burst into tears and cried: "We must obey her... oh holy and unhappy daughter!" She immediately filled a basket with fish, fruit, and bread, and gave it to the servant, saying in a humble and trembling voice: "Carry this to the holy Lady who sends you, and tell her that, as poor sinners, we commend ourselves to her prayers." And when he had left, she said with sorrow to her silent and dismayed husband: "Oh! Iacopo! What have you done? the daughter of our benefactor. — Be silent," he replied, "heaven is already avenging her!"

They brought to Claire what she had asked for; she took a little bread and ate it, after having prayed to God, and this bread, which her companions called the bread of forgiveness, seemed to exert a mysterious virtue on her weak body. She recovered, she rose from this bed where she had been languishing since the death of her father and brothers, and resumed with new fervor her life of prayers and holy works. She often prayed for her cherished dead and for Appiano, their murderer, and when people were astonished at her constant orisons, her long vigils, the fatigues and macerations to which she subjected her so feeble body, she only said to her sisters: "Oh! watch and pray with me... there are some on earth who will soon be surprised by the arrival of the Son of Man. It is terrible to fall into the hands of the living God! Let us pray!"

The justice of God, often even on earth, is not long delayed, and often the arrow returns to pierce the one who launched it. Popular favor, as inconstant as it is thoughtless, quickly turned away from Appiano, and this bitter chalice that his infamous treason had prepared for a friend, for a benefactor, he drank in his turn. The sedition he had ignited against Gambacorti, he heard roaring at the gates of his palace; the cries of death he had once taught the populace returned to his ears, and it was now his name they threatened; the power he had shaken under the feet of another collapsed under his own, and the daggers he had sharpened for murder were directed at his chest. Treated in his turn, and with more just cause, as a public enemy and a seditionist, he lost first his power and then his life.

The monastery servants brought this news to Claire one day; she raised her eyes to heaven and said with sorrow: "O great God! How prompt and terrible are your vengeances! I did not ask you for the death of this man, but for his conversion, and now, Lord, I implore your eternal mercies for the salvation of his soul!" She then prayed for a few moments in silence, and during this time one of the nuns inquired about the fate of Appiano's wife and daughters. "They are wandering in Pisa," the servant replied, "threatened by the furious crowd; they find no one, even among the most ardent partisans of Appiano, who is willing to give them asylum. People fear the fury of the populace, exasperated since it became known that Appiano wanted to sell Pisa to the Duke of Milan. They have nothing left: their palace is pillaged, their riches are scattered, their friends are in flight..." "Let them come here!" cried Claire, "the doors of the monastery will be opened to them, go and fetch them: the daughter of Gambacorti has the right to save the widow and children of Appiano! Go, in the name of heaven!"

Two devoted servants ran in search of the fugitives, and after two hours they brought the widow and her weeping daughters to the monastery. Claire awaited them, Claire received them in her arms and said to them with an inexpressible tone: "Here, you have nothing to fear!" The house she had not been able to open to her beloved brother became a sacred asylum for the wife and daughters of the murderer, where no one dared to pursue them; the anger and vengeance of the people stopped before the virtue of Claire as if before an impassable barrier: no one dared to hate those whom she had forgiven.

Now that, astonished by so many and such beautiful virtues, we have admired the heroism of the strong woman, it is time for us to see her gather the reward promised to strength and holiness. Illness soon came to strike her, horrible sufferings assailed her for several years; but finally God revealed to her that her death was near, and He even warned her of the hour and the moment when she would have to appear before her heavenly Father. Then joy broke out on her features: it was already the reward that God was preparing for her for all the strength she had shown. Fortitudo et decor indumentum ejus, et ridebit in die novissimo: "She has been clothed with strength and beauty, and she will be in joy at her last moments." God is soon to show Himself, she opens her arms, stretches them out on her bed, and recalling the last breath on her lips: "Lord," she says with transport, "Lord, here I am on the cross with You!" At these words, a heavenly light shines on her face, and with her eyes fixed toward heaven, she smiles, blesses her companions, and expires.

Scarcely has Clare given up her soul, than the brown complexion of her face becomes, in an instant, white and dazzling; the glory of her beautiful soul is reflected on the body she has just left. God was pleased to give a multitude of signs of this; the sisters gathered around her began to recite the psalms according to the custom of the Order; they were to end each one with the verse Requiem; but while wishing to conform on this point to the rule, they could never say anything but the Gloria Patri. A venerable priest who had come to pray near the place where she rested had a vision that showed her to him in heaven, her forehead adorned with a golden crown. The Holy Spirit has indeed said that the heavenly golden crown belongs to strength united with holiness. Corona aurea super caput ejus expressa signo sanctitatis; opus virtutis. "A golden crown was upon her head, where the name of holiness had been engraved; it was the prize of her virtue."

Great honors were rendered to the humble nun; clergy and people, citizens of Pisa and foreigners, rich and poor, flocked to seek and look at what remained of her; instead of shedding tears of sadness for such a loss, they manifested the liveliest joy: all were convinced that if they had lost a sister on earth, they had acquired an advocate and a protectress in heaven.

Numerous miracles were performed at her tomb. It was opened a few days after the funeral ceremony, and her body emitted from the mouth blood as fresh and as vermilion as if she had been alive. Thirteen years later, new excavations having been made, her tongue was found as fresh and as whole as at the moment of her death. God wished thereby to honor that which, in the Blessed one, had been employed continually to bless Him and to draw souls to Him. The precious relic was deposited in a beautiful vase and placed in the tabernacle.

A most authentic tradition reports to us that since the death of the Blessed Clare, about a month before one of the sisters of the convent of the Cross is to leave the world, the bones of the former prioress stir in the sepulcher where they are enclosed. It is a warning given to the nuns so that they may prepare themselves for death. After having watched over her sisters so much while she was on earth, with the tenderness and firmness of a true mother, Clare continued in heaven to exercise her ministry of mercy and love.

The immemorial cult rendered to the worthy prioress of the convent of Pisa was approved in 1830 by Pope Pius pape Pie VIII Pope who approved the cult of Clare Gambacorti in 1830. VIII. The decree of beatification was then promulgated with permission, for the Diocese of Pisa and the Order of Friars Preachers, to celebrate the office of Sister Claire Gambacorti on April 17 of each year. Extracted in part from the Panegyric of Blessed Claire Gambacorti, delivered in 1831, in Pisa, by Mgr Luigi della Fantaria, and from the Eight Beatitudes by Mme Froment.