Consider, ungrateful man, all that these two years have brought, what
triumphs for Christ, who really seems to have returned. I will enumerate
them: listen! Bohemia has received its Duke, who has eradicated
heathenism; Austria has concentrated itself as a Danube-state the
heathen Magyar has allowed himself to be baptized, and received the
crown from our own hand as Stephen the First; Boleslaw in Poland has
also received a crown and an archbishop; the new kingdom of Russia
has accepted baptism and Vladimir the Great protects us against the
Saracens, who are on the decline, and Seljuks or Turks, who are in
the ascendant; Harold of Denmark and Olaf of Sweden have established
Christianity in their dominions; so has Olaf Tryggveson in Norway and
Iceland, in the Faroe Island, in Shetland and Greenland; and the Dane
Sven Tveskägg has secured Britain for Christianity. France is under
the pious Robert II, of the new race of the Capets, but also of Saxon
descent like you. In Spain, the northern States Leon, Castille, Aragon,
Navarre, have at last united, and protect us from the Moors in Cordova.
All this in five years, and under the aegis of Rome! Is not all this the
return of Christ, and do you understand now what Providence means by
the Millennium? Those who are alive at the end of another thousand years
will perhaps see the ripe fruits, while we have only seen the blossoms.
The world is certainly not a paradise, but it is better than when we had
savages in the North and East. And all kings receive the crown and the
pallium from Rome. You are a ruler over the nations, my Emperor.”
“I? You rule their minds, not I, and I will not rule.”
“So I have heard, for you have accepted the rule of a woman.”
“Who is that?”
“They say, and you know the report as well as I do, that it is the widow
of Crescentius, the beautiful Stephania. Well, that is your own affair,
but Solomon says,--‘Beware of your enemies, but be wary with your
friends.’”
The Emperor looked as though he wished to defend himself, but could not,
and so the conversation was at an end.
Some days after, Otto III was dead, poisoned, so ran the report, in some
way or other, by the beautiful Stephania.
A year later Silvester II died also.
PETER THE HERMIT
Christendom had awoken to new life after the great and terrible New
Year’s Eve of 999. Nearly a hundred more years had passed when a ragged
barefooted pilgrim wandered out of the gate of Caesarea, on the shore of
the Mediterranean. This was the town from which Paul had sailed for Rome
in order to spread Christianity, which had now conquered all Europe, but
had not been able to maintain a hold upon its birthplace, the Land of
Promise, in which Christ had lived, suffered, and been buried.
The “False Prophet” had been the last possessor of Palestine. But when
his kingdom, like all others, fell to pieces, quite a new race had
issued from the unknown parts of Central Asia and now the Seljuks ruled
in Syria. The last Fatimide Caliphs had been very indifferent in matters
of belief, and the renowned Al Asis, who had married a Christian wife
and was himself a sceptic, had made his wife’s brothers Patriarchs of
Jerusalem and Alexandria. Everything was altered since the time when
the terrible Al Hakim had persecuted Christians as well as Jews, and
destroyed the Church of the Resurrection in Jerusalem. And when the
Seljuk Melikscha had at last captured the town, matters looked almost
hopeless for the Christians, who still made pilgrimages to the Holy
Sepulchre.
The pilgrim we spoke of above pursued his journey in a south-eastern
direction, and now on the first day he saw the lovely Plain of
Sharon spread out before him like a carpet or rather a sea of
flowers--crocuses, narcissi, ranunculi, anemones, and especially the
tall white Sharon lilies.
It was the Promised Land indeed! The whole of the morning he waded in
flowers; at last he reached a village at the foot of a hill. There were
waving corn-crops, climbing vines, flourishing olive and fig trees;
well-fed cattle were watered at the spring, cows and goats were milked.
The pilgrim, who possessed nothing in the world except his rags, asked
for a bowl of milk, but obtained none. He went begging from door to
door, but was hunted away. Every time that he received a refusal he
seemed to be surprisingly cheerful. The fact was, he had come hither
from a distant land in order to be able to realise how his Saviour had
suffered, and now he was graciously allowed to experience it on the holy
soil itself. He passed through the village, and found another sea of
flowers outside it. He bathed his feet in a brook, and felt refreshed.
But now at mid-day a wind from the sea arose, and clouds passed over the
land. The violent rain beat down the fragile lilylike plants, the wind
rooted them up or tore them in two, and collected them in heaps, which
rolled along increasing in size as they went, and crushing other flowers
in their path.
Towards evening the rain ceased, but the wind continued to blow, and
the darkness came. The weary and hungry traveller prepared himself a
bed with a heap of flowers which he kept in its place with some stones.
After he had hollowed out the heap till it looked like an eagle’s nest,
he spread another pile of flowers over himself, and went to sleep,
pleasantly narcotised by all the sweet scents. For several years he
had tasted no wine and never been intoxicated, but this was a good
substitute for it. He did not know whether he was asleep or awake;
sometimes he felt as though he were rolling away like a wave; sometimes
he lay still and listened to a scratching going on in his nest; there
was a blowing and a roaring, a murmur in his ears and flashing before
his eyes. Finally all was still; he believed he had gone to sleep, for
he dreamt.
In his dream he was walking on the Mediterranean Sea; that he found
quite natural, but there followed him knights on horseback, troops of
armed men, whole races of people. They reached the land, they marched
towards the East, and finally saw Jerusalem crowning the heights. Walls,
battlements, and towers were crowded with heathen warriors, and the
Christian knights halted in order to take counsel. But he, the poor
pilgrim, spoke to them, and they listened to him.
“Why do you fear?” he said, “why do you fear these heathen and their
walls? Look at me! I take my staff, ascend Mount Zion, strike the gate
of David with my staff, and the city opens all her gates!”
He did so--in his dream, and Jerusalem was taken. It was a very simple
matter; the knights and the armies honoured him, and he became governor
of Jerusalem. When he awoke on the morrow, he got out of his nest,
and when he looked round, he found himself before the Jaffa Gate of
Jerusalem. He asked himself whether the wind had blown him all that long
way, or whether he had traversed it in sleep. But his dream had been so
vivid, that he found everything natural and simple.
He knocked with his staff at the door. And behold! it really opened, but
only by the space of a hand-breadth, and a soldier asked what he wanted.
He wished, he said, to visit the Holy Sepulchre.
He could do so, was the answer, if he paid thirty silver zecchines.
As he had not so much, the gate was again closed.
The pilgrim, however, not to be frightened, struck again with his staff,
certain that he would get in. Get in he did, quickly enough, and,
after he had been well thrashed, was thrown out again and fell on a
rubbish-heap on which dogs hunted for bones. This reception was not
encouraging, but for the pilgrim it was exactly what he had expected and
wished. He had been beaten in the same city where his Master Christ had
been beaten and tortured.
What an honour! What undeserved grace!
But the thirty silver pieces! Why was the price just thirty? Because
it was the traitor’s reward for betraying the Beloved. He would try to
collect them by begging, even if it took him ten years to do so.
He exhorted himself to patience, and went southward into the valley
of Hinnom or the valley of Hell, where all the rubbish of the city was
thrown. There was filth and an evil smell there, but the pilgrim did
not notice it, for he only sought to catch a glimpse of the walls of the
Holy City. When he came to the south end of the valley, he really beheld
Mount Zion with David’s Sepulchre. Then he fell on his knees and praised
God in song:
“Lauda Sion Salvatorem
Lauda Ducem et pastorem
In hymnis et canticis.”
Strengthened by prayer, he went on. He knew the topography of the place
well, and when he came on a piece of waste ground underneath the Hill
of Evil Counsel, he knew that it was Aceldama, or the Field of the
Dead, which had been purchased with the traitor’s blood-money to bury
strangers in. But he had no thoughts of death, for he knew that he would
live till he had taken the City. On the other hand, he was hungry. How
bitterly he regretted now that he had not accustomed himself in
his youth, like other famous eremites, to eat grass. Weary, but not
depressed, he sat down on a rubbish heap which seemed quite fresh.
As he sat there, a dog came--a mangy famished creature--and laid his
head on the pilgrim’s knee.
“I have nothing to give you, poor thing,” said the pilgrim, and wiped
the dog’s eyes with the flaps of its ears, for it looked as though it
had wept. But when the dog heard what the pilgrim said, it understood,
for animals understood all languages merely by the tone. It then began
to rummage in the rubbish heap. And behold! there lay, between two
cabbage leaves, a pomegranate and a piece of white bread. The pilgrim,
who was accustomed to all kinds of miracles, praised God, and ate. And
when he had eaten, he thanked God the Merciful. The dog stood by the
whole time, and watched him. “Ungrateful wretch that I am to have
forgotten thee!” said the pilgrim; “now I will try my fortune!” He began
to dig with his staff, and see! there lay a fresh bone, which he gave
to the dog, his benefactor. They became friends, and kept together.
They now went round the southern end of the city, and turned northward
towards the Kedron. They followed the brook, having the city wall on
their left and the Mount of Olives on their right. From the bottom of
the valley he saw the place where the Temple had been, but no Temple was
there now--only the dome of the Muhammedan mosque. Of the Holy
Sepulchre there was nothing visible, for it lay within the City and was
inconspicuous. He came to Gethsemane, where Christ had suffered, and he
climbed the Mount of Olives, from whence he could look over Jerusalem.
He did so, and wept. After he had paid his devotions in the ruins of the
Church of the Resurrection, he went on northwards round the city, and
came again to the Jaffa Gate, where he sat down, firmly resolved to
wait till some Christian pilgrims came, for they came hither from all
countries of the world. He wanted to beg from them till he had collected
the thirty zecchines. So he sat through the first night without anybody
coming. Towards morning the door was opened for the peasants who brought
in provisions, and the bold idea occurred to him of trying to get in
with them, but he was immediately detected and thrashed again. This,
however, did not frighten him; he repeated the attempt every morning,
though unsuccessfully. He slept on the ground, and ate from the rubbish
heaps; he was jeered at by the children, beaten by the adults, and
took everything quietly, convinced that some day his dream would be
fulfilled. For thirty days he sat at the gate and received no money,
but on the thirty-first he got up in order to take some exercise. He
wandered down into the Valley of Hinnom, and his dog “Trusty” ran in
front of him.
After he had walked for a while he noticed that his companion had
vanished. When he called him, the dog answered by barking. The pilgrim
followed the sound, and presently he saw the dog standing by a hole
in the wall. There was an entrance, and, following his guide, he came
without hindrance right into the town. The first thing he did was to
visit the Holy Sepulchre, but it was closed. Then he remembered that
there was a Patriarch of Jerusalem, who in some degree acted as a
protector of the Christians. But where did he live? “Perhaps you know,”
he said to the dog.
The dog understood, pricked up his ears, and ran through a labyrinth of
crooked streets till he stood at a little door, with a bell-cord hanging
by it. The pilgrim pulled it, the door opened, and an old white-bearded
man came out, reached the new-comer his hand, led him like a friend into
the house, and bade him sit down. “I have waited long for you, Peter,”
he said. “Yes, I recognise you, for I have seen you for a year in my
dreams, but I know not who you are, and whence you come. Tell me your
history.”
“My history! I am from Amiens in France. I am now called Peter; was
formerly a soldier, followed William the Conqueror to Hastings, and
took part in the invasion of England. I returned to my own country, and
became a school teacher. I could, however, obtain no peace in my soul,
but entered a convent. In the solitude of my cell, I reflected on what
I heard from my brother monks in the chapter. It was the time when Henry
IV began the conflict with Gregory VII. The Pope was right, for Europe
ought to be governed from Rome, and Gregory, who wished to set up
Christ’s Kingdom in spirit and in truth, had united all Christian
States together; he imposed tribute from Scandinavia to the Pillars of
Hercules. The Emperor was a schismatic, and worked only in the interests
of Germany. The matter ended at Canossa, as you know, when the Emperor
had to kiss the Pope’s foot. And that was right at that time, for the
spiritual head is higher than the worldly one. But Canossa was not the
end. Gregory, the mighty champion of the Lord, fell into the same sin as
David. In the first place, he summoned the Norman Guiscard from Sicily
to his aid. Guiscard came with a horde of Turks and heathen, pillaged
Rome, and set it on fire. That was shameful of the Pope, who now fled
with Guiscard to Salerno--which was _his_ Canossa. But he was also still
cruel enough to stir up Henry’s sons against their father. Then the
great Gregory died in banishment, and Rome was extinct. Rome is no more,
but Jerusalem shall be. The chief city of Christendom shall be born
again, and rise from its ruins.”
The Patriarch had listened, and, though he smiled at first, he was
finally serious. “Your faith is great, my son,” he said. “But who will
take the lead? Who will collect the people?”
“I,” answered the Hermit--“I will open the Holy Sepulchre; I will drive
out the heathen, and I will have the first Christian King of Jerusalem
crowned!”
“With two empty hands?”
“With my rock-like faith.”
There was silence.
“Say something, Patriarch!” resumed Peter. “Try to damp my courage if
you can; confront me with objections, and rob me of confidence. You
cannot! There, I will go now to Rome and speak with Urban II. But give
me a letter to confirm my statements when I describe the behaviour of
the heathen in the city of Christ. I ask nothing else of you; the rest I
will do myself.”
“Whoever you are, you shall have the letter, but rest first for a few
days.”
“No! I have gone three hundred and fifty miles and rested for thirty
days. Give me something to eat in the kitchen, while you write the
letter, and I start before sunset. When I come again, I shall not be
alone, but my name will be Legion. And you will see the accomplishment
of my words and your dreams, for God wills it.”
* * * * *
The Hermit Peter walked a hundred and fifty miles to Piacenza, and
there met Pope Urban II, who was holding a council. He received no
encouragement, for the idea of a crusade was no novelty. Gregory VII had
collected fifty thousand men for that purpose, but could not carry out
his plan. With a true Christian spirit, the Hermit took this failure as
a warning to redouble his efforts.
He went to France, preached and stirred up the people, with the result
that all France was aflame with crusading fervour when Urban II came to
Clermont to hold another council. Then the Crusade was determined on.
Peter could not wait, but, together with Walter Pexejo and Walter von
Habenichts, he collected a host which finally reached forty thousand in
number, including old men, women, and children. There were no soldiers
however, but only adventurers who wanted to run away, slaves who sought
freedom, and malcontents who wished for change.
They followed the Rhine towards its source, and then the Danube, along
whose banks the great road to the East ran. As they approached the
frontier of Hungary their number had increased to sixty thousand. The
King of Hungary, Kolowan, was not exactly hospitable, and not a person
whom it was safe to jest with. The Crusaders received a hint that
they were not very welcome, and therefore sent their only mounted
men,--exactly six in number--as ambassadors to the King.
Kolowan was in Pesth, with a well-equipped army, and his country was
enjoying the blessings of peace, when the envoys arrived. “What do you
want?” he asked.
“We seek a free passage to Constantinople.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Exactly sixty thousand.”
“Although I feel honoured by the visit, I cannot entertain grasshoppers.
I have heard of your wild enterprise; I know that you have no provisions
with you, and that you beg and steal. Return therefore to your country,
or I will treat you as enemies!”
The envoys rode back with the King’s answer. But Peter would not turn
back.
“Forward! forward! Crusaders and Christians!” he cried, and the whole
host crossed the frontier. The Hermit rode on an ass at the head of
them, and knew not what went on behind him--robbery, drunkenness, and
licence.
The King learned what had happened, and rode out with all his knights.
When he saw this mass of ragged rascals, drunk and savage, but all
wearing the red cross, he fell in a rage and attacked them. Those who
did not fly were trampled underfoot and sabred down so mercilessly,
that, out of the sixty thousand, only three thousand reached
Constantinople, among whom was the Hermit.
“We have sown our blood,” he said; “our successors will reap.”
The Emperor of Constantinople had certainly for a long time waited for
help from the West against the wild Seljuks, but he had expected
armed men. When he now received a rabble of three thousand beggars and
vagabonds, many of them wounded, he resolved to get rid of these guests
as honourably as possible. He set them in flat-bottomed boats, and
shipped them across to Asia Minor. “Thence you have a straight road to
Jerusalem,” he said. But he did not say that the Seljuks were encamped
on the opposite coast. Accordingly, the rest of them were massacred by
the wild hordes near Nicasa--in the same town in which, during the early
days of Christianity, so many fateful debates had taken place.
But the Hermit escaped, and returned to Constantinople, where he waited
for the great army of the Crusaders. He waited a whole year, just as
confident of victory and undismayed as before.
* * * * *
In the little town Tiberias, on the shore of the Lake of Gennesareth
sat the old Jew Eleazar, with his family, prepared to celebrate the
Passover, or the Exodus from Egypt. It was the tenth day of the month
Nisan of the year 1098. The lake shone clear, and its banks were green;
the oleanders were in blossom, the lilies had sprung up in the pleasant
season when the earth rejoices.
It was evening; all members of the family were dressed as though for a
journey, with shoes on their feet and staves in their hands. They stood
round the covered table on which the roasted lamb smoked in a dish
surrounded by bitter lettuce. The ancestral wine-cup was filled with
wine, and white unleavened bread laid on a plate close by.
After the head of the family had washed his hands, he blessed the gifts
of God, drank some wine, returned thanks, and invited the others to
drink. Then he took some of the bitter herbs, and ate and gave to the
others. Then he read from the book of Moses a passage concerning the
significance of the feast. After that, the second cup of wine was
served, and the youngest son of the house stepped forward and asked,
according to the sacred custom, “What is the meaning of this feast?”
The father answered: “The Lord brought us with a strong hand out of the
Egyptian bondage.”
As he drank from the second cup, he said, “Praise the Lord, O my soul,
and forget not all His benefits.” They then all sang the 115th Psalm,
“Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto Thy name give the praise,
for Thy truth and mercy’s sake. Wherefore should the heathen say, Where
is now their God?”
Thereupon a blessing was pronounced on the unleavened bread and the
roasted lamb, and they sat down to eat, in a state of contentment and
with harmless talk. The old Eleazar spoke of past times, and contrasted
them with them the present: “Man born of a woman lives but a short time,
and is full of trouble; he cometh up like a flower, and is cut down;
he fleeth hence like a shadow, and continueth not. A stranger and a
sojourner is he upon earth, and therefore he should be always ready for
his journey as we are, this holy evening.”
The eldest son Jacob, who had come home in the evening after a journey,
seemed to wish to say something, but did not venture to do so, till the
fourth and last cup was drunk.
“But, my children,” continued Eleazar, “not only is Israel unsettled and
roaming on the earth, but all nations are in a state of wandering. The
difference between them and us is that their gods are mortal, while
Israel’s God lives. Where is Zeus, the god of the Greeks? Where is the
Romans’ Jupiter? Where are the Egyptians’ Isis, Osiris, and Ptha? Where
is the Woutan of the Germans, the Teutates of the Gauls? They are all
dead, but Israel’s God lives; He cannot die. We are at any rate in
Canaan, in our fathers’ land, even if Zion is no longer ours, and we
cannot forget the goodness which the Lord has shown us.”
The last cup was drunk, and after another psalm the festival was at an
end.
“Now, Jacob,” said Eleazar, “you want to talk. You come from a journey,
though somewhat late, and have something new to tell us. Hush! I hear
steps in the garden!”
All hurried to the window, for they lived in troublous times; but, as no
one was to be seen outside, they sat down again at the table.
“Speak, Jacob,” Eleazar said again.
“I come from Antioch, where the Crusaders are besieged by Kerboga,
the Emir of Mosul. Famine has raged among them, and of three hundred
thousand Goyim, [Footnote: Gentiles.] only twenty thousand remain.”
“What had they to do here?”
“Now, on the roads, they are talking of a new battle which the Goyim
have won, and they believe that the Crusaders will march straight on
Jerusalem.”
“Well, they won’t come here.”
“They won’t find the way, unless there are traitors.”
“Moslems or Christians, they are all alike, but Moslems could be our
friends, because they are of Abraham’s seed. ‘God is One!’ Had their
Prophet stood by that, there would have been nothing between us, but
he fell through pride and coupling his own name with that of the
Highest--‘Muhammed is His Prophet.’ Perhaps, but he should not be named
in the same breath with the Eternal. The Christians call him a ‘false
prophet,’ but that he was not.”
“The Christians could rather....”
“The Christians are misguided, and their doctrine is folly. They
believe the Messiah has come, although the world is like a hell, and men
resemble devils! And it ever gets worse....”
Then the door was flung open, and on the threshold appeared a little
man, emaciated as a skeleton, with burning eyes. He was clothed in rags,
carried a cross in his hand, and bore a red cross-shaped sign on his
shoulder.
“Are you Christians?” he asked, “since you drink of the cup and eat the
bread, as our Lord Jesus Christ did on the night of his betrayal?”
“No,” answered Eleazar, “we are of Israel.”
“Then you have eaten and drunk your own damnation, and misused the Holy
Sacrament for purposes of witchcraft! Out with you!--down to the lake
and be baptized, or you will die the death!”