The Miracles of Antichrist
BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE EMPEROR OF PORTUGALLIA
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
JERUSALEM, A Novel
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
THE STORY OF GÖSTA BERLING
(_Trans. from Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flach_)
THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF NILS
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF NILS
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
THE LEGEND OF THE SACRED IMAGE
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
THE MIRACLES OF ANTICHRIST
(_Trans. from Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flach_)
CHRIST LEGENDS
(_Trans. from Swedish by Velma Swanston Howard_)
FROM A SWEDISH HOMESTEAD
(_Trans. from Swedish by Jessie Brochner_)
INVISIBLE LINKS
(_Trans. from Swedish by Pauline Bancroft Flach_)
LILLIECRONA’S HOME
(_Trans. from Swedish by Anna Barwell_)
THE MIRACLES
_of_ ANTICHRIST
_A NOVEL_
FROM THE SWEDISH OF
SELMA LAGERLÖF
TRANSLATED BY
PAULINE BANCROFT FLACH
[Illustration]
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1919
_Copyright, 1899, by_
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
_All rights reserved, including that of
translation into foreign languages_
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION:
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE EMPEROR’S VISION 1
II ROME’S HOLY CHILD 9
III ON THE BARRICADE 19
FIRST BOOK
I MONGIBELLO 25
II FRA GAETANO 39
III THE GOD-SISTER 48
IV DIAMANTE 62
V DON FERRANTE 64
VI DON MATTEO’S MISSION 71
VII THE BELLS OF SAN PASQUALE 77
VIII TWO SONGS 113
IX FLIGHT 125
X THE SIROCCO 128
XI THE FEAST OF SAN SEBASTIANO 156
SECOND BOOK
I A GREAT MAN’S WIFE 185
II PANEM ET CIRCENSES 193
III THE OUTCAST 204
IV THE OLD MARTYRDOM 213
V THE LADY WITH THE IRON RING 226
VI FRA FELICE’S LEGACY 229
VII AFTER THE MIRACLE 252
VIII A JETTATORE 255
IX PALAZZO GERACI AND PALAZZO CORVAJA 270
X FALCO FALCONE 286
XI VICTORY 315
THIRD BOOK
I THE OASIS AND THE DESERT 323
II IN PALERMO 329
III THE HOME-COMING 338
IV ONLY OF THIS WORLD 354
V A FRESCO OF SIGNORELLI 373
The Miracles of Antichrist
INTRODUCTION
“_When Antichrist comes, he shall seem as Christ_”
I
THE EMPEROR’S VISION
It was at the time when Augustus was emperor in Rome and Herod was king
in Jerusalem.
It happened once upon a time that a very great and holy night sank down
over the earth. It was the darkest night ever seen by man; it seemed
as if the whole earth had passed under a vault. It was impossible to
distinguish water from land, or to find the way on the most familiar
paths. And it could not be otherwise, for not a ray of light came from
the sky. All the stars stayed in their houses, and the fair moon kept her
face turned away.
And just as intense as the darkness was the silence and the calm. The
rivers stood still in their course; the wind did not stir, and even the
leaves of the aspen ceased to tremble. Any one walking by the sea would
have found that the waves no longer broke on the shore, and the sand of
the desert did not crunch under the wanderer’s foot. Everything was as
if turned to stone and without motion, in order not to disturb the holy
night. The grass did not dare to grow, the dew could not fall, and the
flowers feared to exhale their perfume.
During that night the beasts of prey did not hunt, the serpents did not
sting, the dogs did not bay. And what was even more wonderful, none of
the inanimate things would have disturbed the holiness of the night by
lending themselves to an evil deed. No false key could open a lock, and
no knife could shed blood.
In Rome, on that very night, a little group of people came down from the
emperor’s palace on the Palatine and made their way over the Forum to
the Capitol. During the day just completed his councillors had asked the
emperor if they might not raise a temple to him on Rome’s holy mountain.
But Augustus had not immediately given his consent. He did not know
if it would be pleasing to the gods for him to possess a temple next
to theirs, and he had answered that he wished first to discover by a
nocturnal sacrifice to his genius what their wishes were. Followed by a
few faithful retainers, he was now on his way to perform that sacrifice.
Augustus was carried in his litter, for he was old, and the long stairs
to the Capitol fatigued him. He held the cage of doves which was his
offering. Neither priests, nor soldiers, nor councillors accompanied him;
only his nearest friends. Torch-bearers walked in front of him, as if to
force a way through the darkness of the night, and behind him followed
slaves, carrying the tripod, the charcoal, the knives, the holy fire, and
everything needed for the sacrifice.
On the way the emperor chatted gayly with his retainers, and none of
them noticed the infinite silence and calm of the night. It was only on
reaching the open place on the top of the Capitol, which had been thought
of for the new temple, that it was revealed to them that something
unusual was occurring.
It could not be a night like any other, for on the edge of the cliff they
saw the strangest being. They thought at first that it was an old twisted
olive trunk; then they thought that an ancient statue from the temple of
Jupiter had wandered out on the cliff. At last they saw that it could
only be the old sibyl.
They had never seen anything so old, so weather-beaten, and so gigantic.
If the emperor had not been there, they would have all fled home to their
beds. “It is she,” they whispered to each other, “who counts as many
years as there are grains of sand on her native shores. Why has she come
out of her cave to-night? What does she foretell to the emperor and to
the country, she who writes her prophecies on the leaves of trees, and
knows that the wind carries the words of the oracle to him who needs
them?”
They were so terrified that all would have fallen on their knees with
their foreheads to the ground had the sibyl made the slightest movement.
But she sat as still as if she had been without life. Crouched on the
very edge of the cliff, and shading her eyes with her hand, she stared
out into the night. She sat there as if she had gone up on the hill the
better to see something happening far away. She alone could see something
in the black night!
At the same moment the emperor and all his suite perceived how intense
the darkness was. Not one of them could see a hand’s-breadth in front
of him. And what a calm, what silence! They could not even hear the
rippling murmur of the Tiber. The air seemed to choke them; a cold sweat
came out on their foreheads, and their hands were stiff and powerless.
They thought that something dreadful must be impending.
But no one liked to show that he was afraid, and everybody told the
emperor that it was a good omen; nature herself held her breath to greet
a new god.
They urged Augustus to hurry, and said that the old sibyl had probably
come up from her cave to greet his genius.
But the truth was that the old sibyl, engrossed in a vision, did not even
know that Augustus had come to the Capitol. She was transported in spirit
to a far distant land, where she thought she was wandering over a great
plain. In the darkness she kept striking her foot against something,
which she thought to be tufts of grass. She bent down and felt with her
hand. No, they were not tufts of grass, but sheep. She was walking among
great sleeping flocks of sheep.
Then she perceived the fire of the shepherds. It was burning in the
middle of the plain, and she approached it. The shepherds were lying
asleep by the fire, and at their sides they had long, pointed staves,
with which they defended their flocks from wild beasts. But the little
animals with shining eyes and bushy tails, which crept forward to the
fire, were they not jackals? And yet the shepherds did not throw their
staves at them; the dogs continued to sleep; the sheep did not flee; and
the wild beasts lay down to rest beside the men.
All this the sibyl saw, but of what was going on behind her on the
mountain she knew nothing. She did not know that people were raising
an altar, lighting charcoal, strewing incense, and that the emperor was
taking one of the doves out of the cage to make a sacrifice to her.
But his hands were so benumbed that he could not hold the bird. With a
single flap of her wings the dove freed herself, and disappeared into the
darkness of the night.
When that happened, the courtiers looked suspiciously at the old sibyl.
They thought that it was she who was the cause of the misfortune.
Could they know that the sibyl still thought she was standing by the
shepherds’ fire, and that she was now listening to a faint sound which
came vibrating through the dead silence of the night? She had heard it
for a long time before she noticed that it came from the sky, and not
from the earth. At last she raised her head, and saw bright, glistening
forms gliding about up in the darkness. They were small bands of angels,
who, singing, and apparently searching, flew up and down the wide plain.
While the sibyl listened to the angels’ song, the emperor was preparing
for a new sacrifice. He washed his hands, purified the altar, and grasped
the other dove. But although he now made a special effort to hold it
fast, the bird slipped through his fingers, and swung itself up into the
impenetrable night.
The emperor was appalled. He fell on his knees before the empty altar
and prayed to his genius. He called on him for strength to avert the
misfortunes which this night seemed to portend.
Nothing of all this had the sibyl heard. She was listening with her
whole soul to the angels’ song, which was growing stronger and stronger.
At last it became so loud that it wakened the shepherds. They raised
themselves on their elbows, and saw shining hosts of silvery angels
moving in the darkness in long, fluttering lines, like birds of passage.
Some had lutes and violins in their hands; others had zithers and harps,
and their song sounded as gay as children’s laughter, and as free from
care as the trilling of a lark. When the shepherds heard it they rose up
to go to the village which was their home, to tell of the miracle.
They went by a narrow, winding path, and the sibyl followed them.
Suddenly it became light on the mountain. A great, bright star kindled
over it, and the village on its top shone like silver in the starlight.
All the wandering bands of angels hastened thither with cries of
jubilation, and the shepherds hurried on so fast that they almost ran.
When they had reached the town they found that the angels had gathered
over a low stable near the gate. It was a wretched building, with roof of
straw, and the bare rock for one wall. Above it hung the star, and more
and more angels kept coming. Some of them placed themselves on the straw
roof, or settled down on the steep cliff behind the house; others hovered
over it with fluttering wings. High, high up, the air was lighted by
their shining wings.
At the moment when the star flamed out over the mountain-village all
nature awoke, and the men who stood on the top of the Capitol were
conscious of it. They felt fresh, but caressing breezes; sweet perfumes
streamed up about them; the trees rustled; the Tiber murmured, the stars
shone, and the moon stood high in the heaven and lighted the world.
And out of the sky the two doves flew circling down, and lighted on the
emperor’s shoulders.
When this miracle took place Augustus rose up with proud joy, but his
friends and his slaves fell on their knees. “Hail, Cæsar!” they cried.
“Your genius has answered you! You are the god who shall be worshipped on
the heights of the Capitol.”
And the tribute which the men in their transport offered the emperor was
so loud that the old sibyl heard it. It waked her from her visions. She
rose from her place on the edge of the cliff, and came forward toward the
people. It seemed as if a dark cloud had risen up from the abyss and sunk
down over the mountain. She was terrifying in her old age. Coarse hair
hung in thin tufts about her head, her joints were thickened, and her
dark skin, hard as bark, covered her body with wrinkle upon wrinkle.
Mighty and awe-inspiring, she advanced towards the emperor. With one hand
she seized his wrist, with the other she pointed towards the distant east.
“Look,” she commanded, and the emperor raised his eyes and saw. The
heavens opened before his eyes and he looked away to the far east. And
he saw a miserable stable by a steep cliff, and in the open door some
kneeling shepherds. Within the stable he saw a young mother on her knees
before a little child, who lay on a bundle of straw on the floor.
And the sibyl’s big, bony fingers pointed towards that poor child.
“Hail, Cæsar!” said the sibyl, with a scornful laugh. “There is the god
who shall be worshipped on the heights of the Capitol.”
Augustus shrank back from her as if from a maniac.
But upon the sibyl fell the mighty spirit of the prophetess. Her dim eyes
began to burn, her hands were stretched towards heaven, her voice did not
seem to be her own, but rang with such strength that it could have been
heard over the whole world. And she spoke words which she seemed to have
read in the stars:--
“On the heights of the Capitol the redeemer of the world shall be
worshipped,
Christ or Antichrist, but no frail mortal.”
When she had spoken she moved away between the terrified men, went slowly
down the mountain, and disappeared.
Augustus, the next day, strictly forbade his people to raise him any
temple on the Capitol. In its place he built a sanctuary to the new-born
godchild and called it “Heaven’s Altar,” Aracoeli.
II
ROME’S HOLY CHILD
On the summit of the Capitol stood a monastery occupied by Franciscan
monks. It was, however, less a monastery than a fortress. It was like a
watch-tower by the seashore, where watch was kept for an approaching foe.
Near the monastery stood the magnificent basilica “Santa Maria in
Aracoeli.” The basilica was built because the sibyl had caused Augustus
to see Christ. But the monastery was built because they feared the
fulfilment of the sibyl’s prophecy; that Antichrist should come to be
worshipped on the Capitol.
And the monks felt like warriors. When they went to church to sing and
pray, they thought that they were walking on ramparts, and sending
showers of arrows down on the assaulting Antichrist.
They lived always in terror of Antichrist, and all their service was a
struggle to keep him away from the Capitolium.
They drew their hats down over their eyes and sat and gazed out into
the world. Their eyes grew feverish with watching, and they continually
thought they discovered Antichrist. “He is here, he is there!” they
cried. And they fluttered up in their brown robes and braced themselves
for the struggle, as crows gather on a crag when they catch a glimpse of
an eagle.
But some said: “What is the use of prayers and penitence? The sibyl has
said it. Antichrist must come.”
Then others said, “God can work a miracle. If it was of no avail to
struggle, He would not have let the sibyl warn us.”
Year after year the Franciscans defended the Capitol by penitences, and
works of charity, and the promulgation of God’s word.
They protected it century after century, but as time went on, men
became more and more feeble and lacking in force. The monks said among
themselves: “Soon the kingdoms of the earth can stand no longer. A
redeemer of the world is needed as in the time of Augustus.”
They tore their hair and scourged themselves, for they knew that he who
was to be born again must be the Antichrist, and that it would be a
regeneration of force and violence.
As a sick man is tormented by his pain, so were they hunted by the
thought of Antichrist. And they saw him before them. He was as rich as
Christ had been poor, as wicked as Christ had been good, as honored as
Christ had been humiliated.
He bore powerful weapons and marched at the head of bloody evil-doers.
He overturned the churches, murdered the priests, and armed people for
strife, so that brother fought against brother, and each feared his
neighbor, and there was no peace.
And for every person of power and might who made his way over the sea of
time, they cried out from the watch-tower on the Capitol: “Antichrist,
Antichrist!”
And for every one who disappeared, and went under, the monks cried:
“Hosanna!” and sang the “Te Deum.” And they said: “It is because of our
prayers that the wicked fall before they succeed in scaling the Capitol.”
It was a hard punishment that in that beautiful monastery its monks could
never feel at rest. Their nights were heavier than their days. Then they
saw wild beasts come into their cells and stretch themselves out beside
them on their beds. And each wild beast was Antichrist. But some of the
monks saw him as a dragon, and others as a griffin, and others as a
sphinx. When they got up from their dreams they were as weak as after a
severe illness.
The only comfort of these poor monks was the miracle-working image of
Christ, which was kept in the basilica of Aracoeli. When a monk was
frightened to desperation, he went into the church to seek consolation
from it. He would go through the whole basilica and into a well-guarded
chapel at the side of the great altar. There he lighted the consecrated
wax candles, and spoke a prayer, before opening the altar shrine, which
had double locks and doors of iron. And as long as he gazed at the image,
he remained upon his knees.
The image represented a little babe, but he had a gold crown upon his
head, gold shoes upon his feet, and his whole dress shone with jewels,
which were given to him by those in distress, who had called on him for
help. And the walls of the chapel were covered with pictures, which
showed how he had saved from dangers of fire and shipwreck, how he had
cured the sick and helped all those who were in trouble. When the monk
saw it he rejoiced, and said to himself: “Praise be to God! As yet it is
Christ who is worshipped on the Capitol.”
The monk saw the face of the image smile at him with mysterious,
conscious power, and his spirit soared up into the holy realms of
confidence. “What can overthrow you in your might?” he said. “What can
overthrow you? To you the Eternal City bends its knees. You are Rome’s
Holy Child. Yours is the crown which the people worship. You come in
your might with help and strength and consolation. You alone shall be
worshipped on the Capitol.”
The monk saw the crown of the image turn into a halo, which sent out rays
over the whole world. And in whatever direction he followed the rays he
saw the world full of churches, where Christ was worshipped. It seemed
as if a powerful conqueror had shown him all the castles and fortresses
which defended his kingdom. “It is certain that you cannot fall,” said
the monk. “Your kingdom will be everlasting.”
And every monk who saw the image had a few hours of consolation and
peace, until fear seized him again. But had the monks not possessed the
image, their souls would not have found a moment’s rest.
Thus had the monks of Aracoeli, by prayers and struggles, worked their
way through the centuries, and there had never lacked for watchers; as
soon as one had been exhausted by terror and anxiety, others had hurried
forward to take his place.
And although most of those who entered the monastery were struck down by
madness or premature death, the succession of monks never diminished,
for it was held a great honor before God to wage the war on Aracoeli.
So it happened that sixty years ago this struggle still went on, and in
the degenerate times the monks fought with greater eagerness than ever
before, and awaited the certain coming of Antichrist.
At that time a rich Englishwoman came to Rome. She went up to the
Aracoeli and saw the image, and he charmed her so that she thought she
could not live if she did not possess him. She went again and again up to
Aracoeli to see the image, and at last she asked the monks if she might
buy him.
But even if she had covered the whole mosaic floor in the great basilica
with gold coins, the monks would not have been willing to sell her that
image, which was their only consolation.
Still the Englishwoman was attracted beyond measure by the image, and
found no joy nor peace without it. Unable to accomplish her object by any
other means, she determined to steal the image. She did not think of the
sin she was committing; she felt only a strong compulsion and a burning
thirst, and preferred to risk her soul rather than to deny her heart the
joy of possessing the object of her longing. And to accomplish her end,
she first had an image made exactly like the one on Aracoeli.
The image on Aracoeli was carved from olive wood from the gardens of
Gethsemane; but the Englishwoman dared to have an image carved from elm
wood, which was exactly like him. The image on Aracoeli was not painted
by mortal hand. When the monk who had carved him had taken up his
brushes and colors, he fell asleep over his work. And when he awoke,
the image was colored,--self-painted as a sign that God loved him. But
the Englishwoman was bold enough to let an earthly painter paint her elm
image so that he was like the holy image.
For the false image she procured a crown and shoes, but they were not of
gold; they were only tin and gilding. She ordered ornaments; she bought
rings, and necklaces, and chains, and bracelets, and diamond suns--but
they were all brass and glass; and she dressed him as those seeking help
had dressed the true image. When the image was ready she took a needle
and scratched in the crown: “My kingdom is only of this world.” It was
as if she was afraid that she herself would not be able to distinguish
one image from the other. And it was as if she had wished to appease her
own conscience. “I have not wished to make a false Christ image. I have
written in his crown: ‘My kingdom is only of this world.’”
Thereupon she wrapped herself in a big cloak, hid the image under it, and
went up to Aracoeli. And she asked that she might be allowed to say her
prayers before the Christchild.
When she stood in the sanctuary, and the candles were lighted, and the
iron door opened, and the image showed itself to her, she began to
tremble and shake and looked as if she were going to faint. The monk who
was with her hurried into the sacristy after water and she was left alone
in the chapel. And when he came back she had committed the sacrilege.
She had exchanged the holy, miracle-working image, and put the false and
impotent one in his place.
The monk saw nothing. He shut in the false image behind iron doors
and double locks, and the Englishwoman went home with the treasure of
Aracoeli. She placed him in her palace on a pedestal of marble and was
more happy than she had ever been before.
Up on Aracoeli, where no one knew what injury they had suffered, they
worshipped the false Christ image as they had worshipped the true one,
and when Christmas came they built for him in the church, as was the
custom, a most beautiful niche. There he lay, shining like a jewel, on
Maria’s knees, and about him shepherds and angels and wise men were
arranged. And as long as he lay there children came from Rome, and the
Campagna, and were lifted up on a little pulpit in the basilica of
Aracoeli, and they preached on the sweetness and tenderness and nobleness
and power of the little Christchild.
But the Englishwoman lived in great terror that some one would discover
that she had stolen the Christ image of Aracoeli. Therefore she confessed
to no one that the image she had was the real one. “It is a copy,” she
said; “it is as like the real one as it can be, but it is only copied.”
Now it happened that she had a little Italian servant girl. One day when
the latter went through the room she stopped before the image and spoke
to him. “You poor Christchild, who are no Christchild,” she said, “if you
only knew how the real child lies in his glory in the niche in Aracoeli
and how Maria and San Giuseppe and the shepherds are kneeling before him!
And if you knew how the children place themselves on a little pulpit just
in front of him, and how they courtesy, and kiss their fingers to him,
and preach for him as beautifully as they can!”
A few days after the little maid came again and spoke to the image. “You
poor Christchild, who are no Christchild,” she said, “do you know that
to-day I have been up in Aracoeli and have seen how the true child was
carried in the procession? They held a canopy over him, all the people
fell on their knees, and they sang and played before him. Never will you
see anything so wonderful!”
And mark that a few days later the little maid came again and spoke to
the image: “Do you know, Christchild, who are not a real Christchild,
that it is better for you to stand where you are standing? For the real
child is called to the sick and is driven to them in his gold-laced
carriage, but _he_ cannot help them and they die in despair. And people
begin to say that Aracoeli’s holy child has lost his power to do good,
and that prayers and tears do not move him. It is better for you to stand
where you are standing than to be called upon and not to be able to help.”
But the next night a miracle came to pass. About midnight a loud ringing
was heard at the cloister gate at Aracoeli. And when the gate-keeper did
not come quickly enough to open, some one began to knock. It sounded
clear, like ringing metal, and it was heard through the whole monastery.
All the monks leaped from their beds. All who had been tortured by
terrible dreams rose at one time, and believed that Antichrist was come.
But when they opened the door--when they opened it! It was the little
Christ image that stood on the threshold. It was his little hand that
had pulled the bell-rope; it was his little, gold-shod foot that had
been stretched out to kick the door.
The gate-keeper instantly took the holy child up in his arms. Then he saw
that it had tears in its eyes. Alas, the poor, holy child had wandered
through the town by night! What had it not seen? So much poverty and so
much want; so much wickedness and so many crimes! It was terrible to
think what it must have experienced.
The gate-keeper went immediately to the prior and showed him the image.
And they wondered how it had come out into the night.
Then the prior had the church bells rung to call the monks to the
service. And all the monks of Aracoeli marched into the great, dim
basilica in order to place the image, with all solemnity, back in its
shrine.
Worn and suffering, they walked and trembled in their heavy homespun
robes. Several of them were weeping, as if they had escaped from some
terrible danger. “What would have happened to us,” they said, “if our
only consolation had been taken from us? Is it not Antichrist who has
tempted out Rome’s holy child from the sheltering sanctuary?”
But when they came to set the Christ image in the shrine of the chapel,
they found there the false child; him who wore the inscription on his
crown: “My kingdom is only of this world.”
And when they examined the image more closely they found the inscription.
Then the prior turned to the monks and spoke to them:--
“Brothers, we will sing the ‘Te Deum,’ and cover the pillars of the
church with silk, and light all the wax candles, and all the hanging
lamps, and we will celebrate a great festival.
“As long as the monastery has stood it has been a home of terror and a
cursed dwelling; but for the suffering of all those who have lived here,
God has been gracious. And now all danger is over.
“God has crowned the fight with victory, and this that you have seen is
the sign that Antichrist shall not be worshipped on the Capitol.
“For in order that the sibyl’s words should be carried out, God has sent
this false image of Christ that bears the words of Antichrist in its
crown, and he has allowed us to worship and adore him as if he had been
the great miracle-worker.
“But now we can rest in joy and peace, for the sibyl’s mystic speech is
fulfilled, and Antichrist has been worshipped here.
“Great is God, the Almighty, who has let our cruel fear be dispelled, and
who has carried out His will without the world needing to gaze upon the
false image made by man.
“Happy is the monastery of Aracoeli that rests under the protection of
God, and does His will, and is blessed by His abounding grace.”
When the prior had said those words he took the false image in his hands,
went through the church, and opened the great door. Thence he walked
out on the terrace. Below him lay the high and broad stairway with its
hundred and nineteen marble steps that leads down from the Capitol as if
into an abyss. And he raised the image over his head and cried aloud:
“Anathema Antikristo!” and hurled him from the summit of the Capitol down
into the world.
III
ON THE BARRICADE
When the rich Englishwoman awoke in the morning she missed the image and
wondered where she should look for him. She believed that no one but
the monks of Aracoeli could have taken him, and she hurried towards the
Capitol to spy and search.
She came to the great marble staircase that leads up to the basilica of
Aracoeli. And her heart beat wildly with joy, for on the lowest step lay
he whom she sought. She seized the image, threw her cloak about him, and
hurried home. And she put him back on his place of honor.
But as she now sank into contemplation of his beauty, she found that the
crown had been dented. She lifted it off the image to see how great the
damage was, and at the same moment her eyes fell on the inscription that
she herself had scratched: “My kingdom is only of this world.”
Then she knew that this was the false Christ image, and that the right
one had returned to Aracoeli.
She despaired of ever again getting it into her possession, and she
decided to leave Rome the next day, for she would not remain there when
she no longer had the image.
But when she left she took the forged image with her, because he reminded
her of the one she loved, and he followed her afterwards on all her
journeys.
She was never at rest and travelled continually, and in that way the
image was carried about over the whole world.
And wherever the image came, the power of Christ seemed to be diminished
without any one rightly understanding why. For nothing could look more
impotent than that poor image of elm wood, dressed out in brass rings and
glass beads.
When the rich Englishwoman who had first owned the image was dead, he
came as an inheritance to another rich Englishwoman, who also travelled
continually, and from her to a third.
Once, and it was still in the time of the first Englishwoman, the image
came to Paris.
As he passed through the great city there was an insurrection. Crowds
rushed wildly screaming through the streets and cried for bread. They
plundered the shops and threw stones at the houses of the rich. Troops
were called out against them, and then they tore up the stones of the
street, dragged together carriages and furniture, and built barricades.
As the rich Englishwoman came driving in her great travelling-carriage,
the mass of people rushed towards it, forced her to leave it, and dragged
the carriage up to one of the barricades.
When they tried to roll the carriage up among all the thousand things of
which the barricade consisted, one of the big trunks fell to the ground.
The cover sprang open, and among other things out rolled the rejected
Christ image.
The people threw themselves upon him to plunder, but they soon saw that
all his grandeur was imitation and quite worthless, and they began to
laugh at him and mock him.
He went from hand to hand among the agitators, until one of them bent
forward to look at his crown. His eyes were attracted by the words which
stood scratched there: “My kingdom is only of this world.”
The man called this out quite loudly, and they all screamed that the
little image should be their badge. They carried him up to the summit of
the barricade and placed him there like a banner.
Among those who defended the barricade was one man who was not a poor
working-man, but a man of education, who had passed his whole life in
study. He knew all the want that tortured mankind, and his heart was full
of sympathy, so that he continually sought means to better their lot. For
thirty years he had written and thought without finding any remedy. Now
on hearing the alarm bell he had obeyed it and rushed into the streets.
He had seized a weapon and gone with the insurgents with the thought that
the riddle which he had been unable to solve should now be made clear by
violence and force, and that the poor should be able to fight their way
to a better lot.
There he stood the whole day and fought; and people fell about him, blood
splashed up into his face, and the misery of life seemed to him greater
and more deplorable than ever before.
But whenever the smoke cleared away, the little image shone before his
eyes; through all the tumult of the fight it stood unmoved high up on the
barricade.
Every time he saw the image the words “My kingdom is only of this world”
flashed through his brain. At last he thought that the words wrote
themselves in the air and began to wave before his eyes, now in fire, now
in blood, now in smoke.
He stood still. He stood there with gun in hand, but he had stopped
fighting. Suddenly he knew that this was the word that he had sought
after all his life. He knew what he would say to the people, and it was
the poor image that had given him the solution.
He would go out into the whole world and proclaim: “Your kingdom is only
of this world.
“Therefore you must care for this life and live like brothers. And you
shall divide your property so that no one is rich and no one poor. You
shall all work, and the earth shall be owned by all, and you shall all be
equal.
“No one shall hunger, no one shall be tempted to luxury, and no one shall
suffer want in his old age.
“And you must think of increasing every one’s happiness, for there is no
compensation awaiting you. Your kingdom is only of this world.”
All this passed through his brain while he stood on the barricade, and
when the thought became clear to him, he laid down his weapon, and did
not lift it again for strife and the shedding of blood.
A moment later the barricade was stormed and taken. The victorious troops
dashed through and quelled the insurrection, and before night order and
peace reigned in the great city.
The Englishwoman sent out her servants to look for her lost possessions,
and they found many, if not all. What they found first of all on the
captured barricade was the image ejected from Aracoeli.
But the man who had been taught during the fight by the image began to
proclaim to the world a new doctrine, which is called Socialism, but
which is an Antichristianity.
And it loves, and renounces, and teaches, and suffers like Christianity,
so that it has every resemblance to the latter, just as the false image
from Aracoeli has every resemblance to the real Christ image.
And like the false image it says: “My kingdom is only of this world.”
And although the image that has spread abroad the teachings is unnoticed
and unknown, the teachings are not; they go through the world to save and
remodel it.
They are spreading from day to day. They go out through all countries,
and bear many names, and they mislead because they promise earthly
happiness and enjoyment to all, and win followers more than any doctrine
that has gone through the world since the time of Christ.
FIRST BOOK
“_There shall be great want_”
I
MONGIBELLO
Towards the end of the seventies there was in Palermo a poor boy whose
name was Gaetano Alagona. That was lucky for him! If he had not been one
of the old Alagonas people would have let him starve to death. He was
only a child, and had neither money nor parents. The Jesuits of Santa
Maria i Jesu had taken him out of charity into the cloister school.
One day, when studying his lesson, a father came and called him from the
school-room, because a cousin wished to see him. What, a cousin! He had
always heard that all his relatives were dead. But Father Josef insisted
that it was a real Signora, who was his relative and wished to take him
out of the monastery. It became worse and worse. Did she want to take him
out of the monastery? That she could never do! He was going to be a monk.
He did not at all wish to see the Signora. Could not Father Josef tell
her that Gaetano would never leave the monastery, and that it was of no
avail to ask him? No, Father Josef said that he could not let her depart
without seeing him, and he half dragged Gaetano into the reception-room.
There she stood by one of the windows. She had gray hair; her skin was
brown; her eyes were black and as round as beads. She had a lace veil on
her head, and her black dress was smooth with wear, and a little green,
like Father Josef’s very oldest cassock.
She made the sign of the cross when she saw Gaetano. “God be praised, he
is a true Alagona!” she said, and kissed his hand.
She said that she was sorry that Gaetano had reached his twelfth year
without any of his family asking after him; but she had not known that
there were any of the other branch alive. How had she found it out now?
Well, Luca had read the name in a newspaper. It had stood among those who
had got a prize. It was a half-year ago now, but it was a long journey to
Palermo. She had had to save and save to get the money for the journey.
She had not been able to come before. But she had to come and see him.
_Santissima madre_, she had been so glad! It was she, Donna Elisa, who
was an Alagona. Her husband, who was dead, had been an Antonelli. There
was one other Alagona, that was her brother. He, too, lived at Diamante.
But Gaetano probably did not know where Diamante was. The boy drew his
head back. No, she thought as much, and she laughed.
“Diamante is on Monte Chiaro. Do you know where Monte Chiaro is?”
“No.”
She drew up her eyebrows and looked very roguish.
“Monte Chiaro is on Etna, if you know where Etna is.”
It sounded so anxious, as if it were too much to ask that Gaetano should
know anything about Etna. And they laughed, all three, she and Father
Josef and Gaetano.
She seemed a different person after she had made them laugh. “Will you
come and see Diamante and Etna and Monte Chiaro?” she asked briskly.
“Etna you must see. It is the greatest mountain in the world. Etna is a
king, and the mountains round about kneel before him, and do not dare to
lift their eyes to his face.”
Then she told many tales about Etna. She thought perhaps that it would
tempt him.
And it was really true that Gaetano had not thought before what kind of
a mountain Etna was. He had not remembered that it had snow on its head,
oak forests in its beard, vineyards about its waist, and that it stood in
orange groves up to its knees. And down it ran broad, black rivers. Those
streams were wonderful; they flowed without a ripple; they heaved without
a wind; the poorest swimmer could cross them without a bridge. He guessed
that she meant lava. And she was glad that he had guessed it. He was a
clever boy. A real Alagona!
And Etna was so big! Fancy that it took three days to drive round it and
three days to ride up to the top and down again! And that there were
fifty towns beside Diamante on it, and fourteen great forests, and two
hundred small peaks, which were not so small either, although Etna was so
big that they seemed as insignificant as a swarm of flies on a church
roof. And that there were caves which could hold a whole army, and hollow
old trees, where a flock of sheep could find shelter from the storm!
Everything wonderful was to be found on Etna. There were rivers of which
one must beware. The water in them was so cold that any one who drank of
it would die. There were rivers which flowed only by day, and others that
flowed only in winter, and some which ran deep under the earth. There
were hot springs, and sulphur springs, and mud-volcanoes.
It would be a pity for Gaetano not to see the mountain, for it was so
beautiful. It stood against the sky like a great tent. It was as gayly
colored as a merry-go-round. He ought to see it in the morning and
evening, when it was red; he ought to see it at night, when it was white.
He ought also to know that it truly could take every color; that it could
be blue, black, brown or violet; sometimes it wore a veil of beauty, like
a signora; sometimes it was a table covered with velvet; sometimes it had
a tunic of gold brocade and a mantle of peacock’s-feathers.
He would also like to know how it could be that old King Arthur was
sitting there in a cave. Donna Elisa said that it was quite certain that
he still lived on Etna, for once, when the bishop of Catania was riding
over the mountain, three of his mules ran away, and the men who followed
them found them in the cave with King Arthur. Then the king asked the
guides to tell the bishop that when his wounds were healed he would come
with his knights of the Round Table and right everything that was in
disorder in Sicily. And he who had eyes to see knew well enough that
King Arthur had not yet come out of his cave.
Gaetano did not wish to let her tempt him, but he thought that he might
be a little friendly. She was still standing, but now he fetched her a
chair. That would not make her think that he wanted to go with her.
He really liked to hear her tell about her mountain. It was so funny that
it should have so many tricks. It was not at all like Monte Pellegrino,
near Palermo, that only stood where it stood. Etna could smoke like a
chimney and blow out fire like a gas jet. It could rumble, shake, vomit
forth lava, throw stones, scatter ashes, foretell the weather, and
collect rain. If Mongibello merely stirred, town after town fell, as if
the houses had been cards set on end.
Mongibello, that was also a name for Etna. It was called Mongibello
because that meant the mountain of mountains. It deserved to be called so.
Gaetano saw that she really believed that he would not be able to resist.
She had so many wrinkles in her face, and when she laughed, they ran
together like a net. He stood and looked at it; it seemed so strange. But
he was not caught yet in the net.
She wondered if Gaetano really would have the courage to come to Etna.
For inside the mountain were many bound giants and a black castle, which
was guarded by a dog with many heads. There was also a big forge and a
lame smith with only one eye in the middle of his forehead. And worst of
all, in the very heart of the mountain, there was a sulphur sea which
cooked like an oil kettle, and in it lay Lucifer and all the damned. No,
he never would have the courage to come there, she said.
Otherwise there was no danger in living there, for the mountain feared
the saints. Donna Elisa said that it feared many saints, but most Santa
Agata of Catania. If the Catanians always were as they should be to her,
then neither earthquake nor lava could do them any harm.
Gaetano stood quite close to her and he laughed at everything she said.
How had he come there and why could he not stop laughing? It was a
wonderful signora.
Suddenly he said, in order not to deceive her, “Donna Elisa, I am going
to be a monk.”--“Oh, are you?” she said. Then without anything more she
began again to tell about the mountain.
She said that now he must really listen; now she was coming to the most
important of all. He was to fellow her to the south side of the mountain
so far down that they were near the castle of Catania, and there he would
see a valley, a quite big and wide oval valley. But it was quite black;
the lava streams came from all directions flowing down into it. There
were only stones there, not a blade of grass.
But what had Gaetano believed about the lava? Donna Elisa was sure that
he believed that it lay as even and smooth on Etna as it lies in the
streets. But on Etna there are so many surprises. Could he understand
that all the serpents and dragons and witches that lay and boiled in
the lava ran out with it when there was an eruption? There they lay and
crawled and crept and twisted about each other, and tried to creep up
to the cold earth, and held each other fast in misery until the lava
hardened about them. And then they could never come free. No indeed!
The lava was not unproductive, as he thought. Although no grass grew,
there was always something to see. But he could never guess what it was.
It groped and fell; it tumbled and crept; it moved on its knees, on its
head, and on its elbows. It came up the sides of the valley and down
the sides of the valley; it was all thorns and knots; it had a cloak of
spider’s-web and a wig of dust, and as many joints as a worm. Could it be
anything but the cactus? Did he know that the cactus goes out on the lava
and breaks the ground like a peasant? Did he know that nothing but the
cactus can do anything with the lava?
Now she looked at Father Josef and made a funny face. The cactus was the
best goblin to be found on Etna; but goblins were goblins. The cactus was
a Turk, for it kept female slaves. No sooner had the cactus taken root
anywhere than it must have almond trees near it. Almond trees are fine
and shining signoras. They hardly dare to go out on the black surface,
but that does not help them. Out they must, and out they are. Oh, Gaetano
should see if he came there. When the almond trees stand white with their
blossoms in the spring on the black field among the gray cacti, they are
so innocent and beautiful that one could weep over them as over captive
princesses.
Now he must know where Monte Chiaro lay. It shot up from the bottom of
that black valley. She tried to make her umbrella stand on the floor.
It stood so. It stood right up. It had never thought of either sitting
or lying. And Monte Chiaro was as green as the valley was black. It
was palm next palm, vine upon vine. It was a gentleman in a flowery
dressing-gown. It was a king with a crown on his head. It bore the whole
of Diamante about its temples.
Some time before Gaetano had a desire to take her hand. If he only could
do it. Yes, he could. He drew her hand to him like a captured treasure.
But what should he do with it? Perhaps pat it. If he tried quite gently
with one finger, perhaps she would not notice it. Perhaps she would not
notice if he took two fingers. Perhaps she would not even notice if he
should kiss her hand. She talked and talked. She noticed nothing at all.
There was still so much she wished to say. And nothing so droll as her
story about Diamante!
She said that the town had once lain down on the bottom of the valley.
Then the lava came, and fiery red looked over the edge of the valley.
What, what! was the last day come? The town in great haste took its
houses on its back, on its head, and under its arms, and ran up Monte
Chiaro, that lay close at hand.
Zigzagging up the mountain the town ran. When it was far enough up it
threw down a town gate and a piece of town wall. Then it ran round the
mountain in a spiral and dropped down houses. The poor people’s houses
tumbled as they could and would. There was no time for anything else.
No one could ask anything better than crowding and disorder and crooked
streets. No, that you could not. The chief street went in a spiral round
the mountain, just as the town had run, and along it had set down here
a church and there a palace. But there had been that much order that
the best came highest up. When the town came to the top of the mountain
it had laid out a square, and there it had placed the city hall and the
Cathedral and the old palazzo Geraci.
If he, Gaetano Alagona, would follow her to Diamante, she would take him
with her up to the square on the top of the mountain, and show him what
stretches of land the old Alagonas had owned on Etna, and on the plain of
Catania, and where they had raised their strongholds on the inland peaks.
For up there all that could be seen, and even more. One could see the
whole sea.
Gaetano had not thought that she had talked long, but Father Josef seemed
to be impatient. “Now we have come to your own home, Donna Elisa,” he
said quite gently.
But she assured Father Josef that at her house there was nothing to see.
What she first of all wished to show Gaetano was the big house on the
corso, that was called the summer palace. It was not so beautiful as the
palazzo Geraci, but it was big; and when the old Alagonas were prosperous
they came there in summer to be nearer the snows of Etna. Yes, as she
said, towards the street it was nothing to see, but it had a beautiful
court-yard with open porticos in both the stories. And on the roof there
was a terrace. It was paved with blue and white tiles, and on every tile
the coat of arms of the Alagonas was burnt in. He would like to come and
see that?
It occurred to Gaetano that Donna Elisa must be used to having children
come and sit on her knees when she was at home. Perhaps she would not
notice if he should also come. And he tried. And so it was. She was used
to it. She never noticed it at all.