on the Capitol, told the people of the image of the Christchild that
was there, and of the thousand miracles he had performed. “And now that
good little child wishes to be worshipped in Sicily,” said Father Gondo.
“Let us hesitate no longer, and hasten to him. For the moment heaven is
generous. Let us be the first to acknowledge the image! Let us be like
the shepherds and wise men of the East; let us go to the holy child
while he is still lying on his bed of straw in the miserable hut!”
Margherita Cornado was filled with a new hope when she heard him. She was
the first to obey Father Gondo’s summons. After her others joined him
also. Forty pilgrims marched with him through the plateaus of the inland
to Diamante.
They were all very poor and unhappy. But Father Gondo made them march
with song and prayer. Soon their eyes began to shine as if the star of
Bethlehem had gone before them.
“Do you know,” said Father Gondo, “why God’s son is greater than all the
saints? Because he gives the soul holiness; because he forgives sins;
because he grants to the spirit a blessed trust in God; because his
kingdom is not of this world.”
When his little army looked tired, he gave them new life by telling them
of the miracles the image had performed. The legends of the blind singers
were like cooling drinks and cheering wine. The poor wanderers in the
barren lands of Sicily walked with a lighter step, as if they were on
their way to Nazareth to see the carpenter’s son.
“He will take all our burdens from us,” said Father Gondo. “When we come
back our hearts will be freed from every care.”
And during the wandering through the scorched, glowing desert, where no
trees gave cooling shade, and where the water was bitter with salt and
sulphur, Margherita Cornado felt that her heart’s torments were relieved.
“The little king of heaven will take away my pain,” she said.
At last, one day in May, the pilgrims reached the foot of the hill of
Diamante. There the desert stopped. They saw about them groves of
olive-trees and fresh green leaves. The mountain shone; the town shone.
They felt that they had come to a place in the shadow of God’s grace.
They toiled joyfully up the zigzag path, and with loud and exultant
voices sang an old pilgrims’ song.
When they had gone some way up the mountain, people came running from
Diamante to meet them. When the people heard the monotonous sound of the
old song, they threw aside their work and hurried out. And the people of
Diamante embraced and kissed the pilgrims.
They had expected them long ago; they could not understand why they
had not come before. The Christ-image of Diamante was a wonderful
miracle-worker; he was so compassionate, so loving that every one ought
to come to him.
When Margherita Cornado heard them she felt as if her heart was already
healed of its pain. All the people of Diamante comforted her and
encouraged her. “He will certainly help you; he helps every one,” they
said. “No one has prayed to him in vain.”
At the town-gate the pilgrims parted. The townspeople took them to their
homes, so that they might rest after their journey. In an hour they were
all to meet at the Porta Etnea in order to go out to the image together.
But Margherita had not the patience to wait a whole hour. She asked her
way out to the church of San Pasquale and went there alone before all the
others.
When Father Gondo and the pilgrims came out to San Pasquale an hour
later, they saw Margherita Cornado sitting on the platform by the high
altar. She was sitting still and did not seem to notice their coming. But
when Father Gondo came close up to her, she started up as if she had lain
in wait for him and threw herself upon him. She seized him by the throat
and tried to strangle him.
She was big, splendidly developed and strong. It was only after a severe
struggle that Father Gondo and two of the pilgrims succeeded in subduing
her. She was quite mad, and so violent that she had to be bound.
The pilgrims had come in a solemn procession; they sang, and held burning
candles in their hands. There was a long line of them, for many people
from Diamante had joined them. Those who came first immediately stopped
their singing; those coming after had noticed nothing and continued their
song. But then the news of what had happened passed from file to file,
and wherever it came the song stopped. It was horrible to hear how it
died away and changed into a low wail.
All the weary pilgrims realized that they had failed in their coming. All
their laborious wanderings had been in vain. They were disappointed in
their beautiful hopes. The holy image would have no consolation to offer
them.
Father Gondo himself was in despair. It was a more severe blow to him
than to any one else, for each one of the others had only his own sorrow
to think of, but he bore the sorrows of all those people in his heart.
What answer could he give to all the hopes he had awakened in them?
Suddenly one of his beautiful, child-like smiles passed over his face.
The image must wish to test his faith and that of the others. If only
they did not fail, they would certainly be helped.
He began again to sing the pilgrim song in his clear voice and went up to
the altar.
But as he came nearer to the image, he broke off in his song again. He
stopped and looked at the image with staring eyes. Then he stretched out
his hand, took the crown and brought it close to his eyes. “It is written
there; it is written there,” he murmured. And he let the crown fall from
his hand and roll down on the stone floor.
From that moment Father Gondo knew that the outcast from Aracoeli was
before him.
But he did not immediately cry it out to the people, but said instead,
with his usual gentleness,--
“My friends, I wish to tell you something strange.”
He told them of the Englishwoman who had wished to steal the Christ-image
of Aracoeli. And he told how the image had been called Antichrist and had
been cast out into the world.
“I still remember old Fra Simone,” said Father Gondo. “He never showed me
the image without saying: ‘It was this little hand that rang. It was this
little foot that kicked on the door.’
“But when I asked Fra Simone what had become of the other image, he
always said: ‘What should have become of him? The dogs of Rome have
probably dragged him away and torn him to pieces.’”
When Father Gondo had finished speaking, he went, still quite slowly and
quietly, and picked up the crown that he had just let fall to the floor.
“Now read that!” he said. And he let the crown go from man to man. The
people stood with their wax-candles in their hands and lighted up the
crown with them. Those who could read, read; the others saw that at least
there was an inscription.
And each one who had held the crown in his hand instantly extinguished
his candle.
When the last candle was put out, Father Gondo turned to his pilgrims
who had gathered about him. “I have brought you here,” he said to them,
“that you might find one who gives the soul peace and an entry to God’s
kingdom; but I have brought you wrong, for this one has no such thing to
give. His kingdom is only of this world.
“Our unfortunate sister has gone mad,” continued Father Gondo, “because
she came here and hoped for heavenly benefits. Her reason gave way when
her prayers were not heard. He could not hear her, for his kingdom is
only of this world.”
He was silent a moment, and they all looked up at him to find out what
they ought to think of it all.
He asked as quietly as before: “Shall an image which bears such words in
its crown any longer be allowed to desecrate an altar?”
“No, no!” cried the pilgrims. The people of Diamante stood silent.
Father Gondo took the image in his hands and carried it on his
outstretched arms through the church and towards the door.
But although the Father had spoken gently and humbly, his eyes had rested
the whole time sternly and with compelling force on the crowd of people.
There was not one there whom he had not subdued and mastered by the
strength of his will. Every one had felt paralyzed and without the power
of thinking independently.
As Father Gondo approached the door, he stopped and looked around. One
last commanding glance fell on the people.
“The crown also,” said Father Gondo. And the crown was handed to him.
He set the image down and went out under the stone canopy that protected
the image of San Pasquale. He whispered a word to a couple of pilgrims,
and they hurried away. They soon came back with their arms full of
branches and logs. They laid them down before Father Gondo and set them
on fire.
All who had been in the church had crowded out. They stood in the yard
outside the church, still subdued, with no will of their own. They saw
that the monk meant to burn their beloved image that helped them so, and
yet they made no resistance. They could not understand themselves why
they did not try to save the image.
When Father Gondo saw the fire kindle and therefore felt that the image
was entirely in his power, he straightened himself and his eyes flashed.
“My poor children,” he said gently, and turned to the people of Diamante.
“You have been harboring a terrible guest. How is it possible for you not
to have discovered who he is?
“What ought I to believe of you?” he continued more sternly. “You
yourselves say that the image has given you everything for which you
have prayed. Has no one in Diamante in all these years prayed for the
forgiveness of sins and the peace of the soul?
“Can it be possible? The people of Diamante have not had anything to pray
for except lottery numbers and good years and daily bread and health and
money. They have asked for nothing but the good of this world. Not one
has needed to pray for heavenly grace.
“Can it really be? No, it is impossible,” said Father Gondo joyfully,
as if filled with a sudden hope. “It is I who have made a mistake. The
people of Diamante have understood that I would not lay the image on the
fire without asking and investigating about it. You are only waiting for
me to be silent to step forward and give your testimony.
“Many will now come and say: ‘That image has made me a believer;’ and
many will say: ‘He has granted me the forgiveness of sins;’ and many will
say: ‘He has opened my eyes, so that I have been able to gaze on the
glory of heaven.’ They will come forward and speak, and I shall be mocked
and derided and compelled to bear the image to the altar and acknowledge
that I have been mistaken.”
Father Gondo stopped speaking and smiled invitingly at the people. A
quick movement passed through the crowd of listeners. Several seemed to
have the intention of coming forward and testifying. They came a few
steps, but then they stopped.
“I am waiting,” said the Father, and his eyes implored and called on the
people to come.
No one came. The whole mass of people was in wailing despair that they
would not testify to the advantage of their beloved image. But no one did
so.
“My poor children,” said Father Gondo, sadly. “You have had Antichrist
among you, and he has got possession of you. You have forgotten heaven.
You have forgotten that you possess a soul. You think only of this world.
“Formerly it was said that the people of Diamante were the most religious
in Sicily. Now it must be otherwise. The inhabitants of Diamante are
slaves of the world. Perhaps they are even infidel socialists, who love
only the earth. They can be nothing else. They have had Antichrist among
them.”
When the people were accused in such a way, they seemed at last to be
about to rise in resistance. An angry muttering passed through the ranks.
“The image is holy,” one cried. “When he came San Pasquale’s bells rang
all day.”
“Could they ring for less time to warn you of such a misfortune?”
rejoined the monk.
He went on with his accusations with growing violence. “You are
idolaters, not Christians. You serve him because he helps you. There is
nothing of the spirit of holiness in you.”
“He has been kind and merciful, like Christ,” answered the people.
“Is not just that the misfortune?” said the Father, and now all of a
sudden he was terrible in his wrath. “He has taken the likeness of Christ
to lead you astray. In that way he has been able to weave his web about
you. By scattering gifts and blessings over you, he has lured you into
his net and made you slaves of the world. Or is it not so? Perhaps some
one can come forward and say the contrary? Perhaps he has heard that some
one who is not present to-day has prayed to the image for a heavenly
grace.”
“He has taken away the power of a _jettatore_,” said one.
“Is it not he who is as great in evil as the _jettatore_ who has power
over him?” answered the father, bitterly.
They made no other attempts to defend the image. Everything that they
said seemed only to make the matter worse.
Several looked round for Donna Micaela, who was also present. She stood
among the crowd, heard and saw everything, but made no attempt to save
the image.
When Father Gondo had said that the image was Antichrist she had been
terrified, and when he showed that the people of Diamante had only asked
for the good of this world, her terror had grown. She had not dared to do
anything.
But when he said that she and all the others were in the power of
Antichrist, something in her rose against him. “No, no,” she said, “it
cannot be so.” If she should believe that an evil power had governed her
during so many years, her reason would give way. And her reason began to
defend itself.
Her faith in the supernatural broke in her like a string too tightly
stretched. She could not follow it any longer.
With infinite swiftness everything of the supernatural that she herself
had experienced flashed through her mind, and she passed sentence on it.
Was there a single proven miracle? She said to herself that there were
coincidences, coincidences.
It was like unravelling a skein. From what she herself had experienced
she passed to the miracles of other times. They were coincidences. They
were hypnotism. They were possibly legends, most of them.
The raging monk continued to curse the people with terrible words. She
tried to listen to him to get away from her own thoughts. But all she
thought was that what he said was madness and lies.
What was going on in her? Was she becoming an atheist?
She looked about for Gaetano. He was there also; he stood on the church
steps quite near the monk. His eyes rested on her. And as surely as if
she had told him it, he knew what was passing in her. But he did not
look as if he were glad or triumphant. He looked as if he wished to stop
Father Gondo, to save a little vestige of faith for her.
Donna Micaela’s thoughts had no mercy. They went on and robbed her soul.
All the glowing world of the supernatural was destroyed, crushed. She
said to herself that no one knew anything of celestial matters, nor could
know anything. Many messages had gone from earth to heaven. None had gone
from heaven to earth.
“But I will still believe in God,” she said, and clasped her hands as if
still to hold fast the last and best.
“Your eyes, people of Diamante, are wild and evil,” said Father Gondo.
“God is not in you. Antichrist has driven God away from you.”
Donna Micaela’s eyes again sought Gaetano’s. “Can you give a poor,
doubting creature something on which to live?” they seemed to ask. His
eyes met hers with proud confidence. He read in her beautiful, imploring
eyes how her trembling soul clung to him for support. He did not doubt
for a moment that he would be able to make her life beautiful and rich.
She thought of the joy that always met him wherever he showed himself.
She thought of the joy that had roared about her that night in Palermo.
She knew that it rose from the new faith in a happy earth. Could that
faith and that joy take possession of her also?
She wrung her hands in anguish. Could that new faith be anything to her?
Would she not always feel as unhappy as now?
Father Gondo bent forward over the fire.
“I say to you once more,” he cried, “if only one person comes and says
that this image has saved his soul, I will not burn it.”
Donna Micaela had a sudden feeling that she did not wish the poor image
to be destroyed. The memory of the most beautiful hours of her life was
bound to it.
“Gandolfo, Gandolfo,” she whispered. She had just seen him beside her.
“Yes, Donna Micaela.”
“Do not let him burn the image, Gandolfo!”
The monk had repeated his question once, twice, thrice. No one came
forward to defend the image. But little Gandolfo crept nearer and nearer.
Father Gondo brought the image ever closer to the fire.
Involuntarily Gaetano had bent forward. Involuntarily a proud smile
passed over his face. Donna Micaela saw that he felt that Diamante
belonged to him. The monk’s wild proceedings made Gaetano master of
their souls.
She looked about in terror. Her eyes wandered from face to face. Was
the same thing going on in all those people’s souls as in her own? She
thought she saw that it was so.
“Thou, Antichrist,” said Father Gondo, threateningly, “dost thou see that
no one has thought of his soul as long as thou hast been here? Thou must
perish.”
Father Gondo laid the outcast on the pyre.
But the image had not lain there more than a second before Gandolfo
seized him.
He caught him up, lifted him high above his head, and ran. Father Gondo’s
pilgrims hurried after him, and there began a wild chase down Monte
Chiaro’s precipices.
But little Gandolfo saved the image.
Down the road a big, heavy travelling-carriage came driving. Gandolfo,
whose pursuers were close at his heels, knew nothing better to do than to
throw the image into the carriage.
Then he let himself be caught. When his pursuers wished to hurry after
the carriage, he stopped them. “Take care; the lady in the carriage is
English.”
It was Signora Favara, who had at last wearied of Diamante and was
travelling out into the world once more. And she was allowed to go away
unmolested. No Sicilian dares to lay hands on an Englishwoman.
V
A FRESCO OF SIGNORELLI
A week later Father Gondo was in Rome. He was granted an interview with
the old man in the Vatican and told him how he had found Antichrist
in the likeness of Christ, how the former had entangled the people of
Diamante in worldliness, and how he, Father Gondo, had wished to burn
him. He also told how he had not been able to lead the people back to
God. Instead, all Diamante had fallen into unbelief and socialism. No one
there cared for his soul; no one thought of heaven. Father Gondo asked
what he should do with those unfortunate people.
The old pope, who is wiser than any one now living, did not laugh at
Father Gondo’s story; he was deeply distressed by it.
“You have done wrong; you have done very wrong,” he said.
He sat silent for a while and pondered; then he said: “You have not seen
the Cathedral in Orvieto?”--“No, Holy Father.”--“Then go there now and
see it,” said the pope; “and when you come back again, you shall tell me
what you have seen there.”
Father Gondo obeyed. He went to Orvieto and saw the most holy Cathedral.
And in two days he was back in the Vatican.
“What did you see in Orvieto?” the pope asked him.
Father Gondo said that in one of the chapels of the Cathedral he
had found some frescoes of Luca Signorelli, representing “The Last
Judgment.” But he had not looked at either the “Last Judgment” or at the
“Resurrection of The Dead.” He had fixed all his attention on the big
painting which the guide called “The Miracles of Antichrist.”
“What did you see in it?” asked the pope.
“I saw that Signorelli had painted Antichrist as a poor and lowly man,
just as the Son of God was when he lived here on earth. I saw that he had
dressed him like Christ and given him Christ’s features.”
“What more did you see?” said the pope.
“The first thing that I saw in the fresco was Antichrist preaching so
that the rich and the mighty came and laid their treasures at his feet.
“The second thing I saw was a sick man brought to Antichrist and healed
by him.
“The third thing I saw was a martyr proclaiming Antichrist and suffering
death for him.
“The fourth thing I saw in the great wall-picture was the people
hastening to a great temple of peace, the spirit of evil hurled from
heaven, and all men of violence killed by heaven’s thunderbolts.”
“What did you think when you saw that?” asked the pope.
“When I saw it, I thought: ‘That Signorelli was mad. Does he mean that in
the time of Antichrist evil shall be conquered, and the earth become holy
as a paradise?’”
“Did you see anything else?”
“The fifth thing I saw depicted in the painting was the monks and priests
piled up on a big bonfire and burned.
“And the sixth and last thing I saw was the Devil whispering in
Antichrist’s ear, and suggesting to him how he was to act and speak.”
“What did you think when you saw that?”
“I said to myself: ‘That Signorelli is not mad; he is a prophet.
Antichrist will certainly come in the likeness of Christ and make a
paradise of the world. He will make it so beautiful that the people will
forget heaven. And it will be the world’s most terrible temptation.’”
“Do you understand now,” said the pope, “that there was nothing new in
all that you told me? The Church has always known that Antichrist would
come, armed with the virtues of Christ.”
“Did you also know that he had actually come, Holy Father?” asked Father
Gondo.
“Could I sit here on Peter’s chair year after year without knowing that
he has come?” said the pope. “I see starting a movement of the people,
which burns with love for its neighbor and hates God. I see people
becoming martyrs for the new hope of a happy earth. I see how they
receive new joy and new courage from the words ‘Think of the earth,’ as
they once found them in the words ‘Think of heaven.’ I knew that he whom
Signorelli had foretold had come.”
Father Gondo bowed silently.
“Do you understand now wherein you did wrong?”
“Holy Father, enlighten me as to my sin.”
The old pope looked up. His clear eyes looked through the veil of chance
which shrouds future events and saw what was hidden behind it.
“Father Gondo,” he said, “that little child with whom you fought in
Diamante, the child who was merciful and wonder-working like Christ, that
poor, despised child who conquered you and whom you call Antichrist, do
you not know who he is?”
“No, Holy Father.”
“And he who in Signorelli’s picture healed the sick, and softened the
rich, and felled evil-doers to the earth, who transformed the earth to a
paradise and tempted the people to forget heaven. Do you not know who he
is?”
“No, Holy Father.”
“Who else can he be but the Antichristianity, socialism?”
The monk looked up in terror.
“Father Gondo,” said the pope, sternly, “when you held the image in your
arms you wished to burn him. Why? Why were you not loving to him? Why did
you not carry him back to the little Christchild on the Capitolium from
whom he proceeded?
“That is what you wandering monks could do. You could take the great
popular movement in your arms, while it is still lying like a child
in its swaddling clothes, and you could bear it to Jesus’ feet; and
Antichrist would see that he is nothing but an imitation of Christ, and
would acknowledge him his Lord and Master. But you do not do so. You
cast Antichristianity on the pyre, and soon he in his turn will cast you
there.”
Father Gondo bent his knee. “I understand, Holy Father. I will go and
look for the image.”
The pope rose majestically. “You shall not look for the image; you shall
let him go his way through the ages. We do not fear him. When he comes
to storm the Capitol in order to mount the throne of the world, we shall
meet him, and we shall lead him to Christ. We shall make peace between
earth and heaven. But you do wrong,” he continued more mildly, “to hate
him. You must have forgotten that the sibyl considered him one of the
redeemers of the world. ‘On the heights of the Capitol the redeemer of
the world shall be worshipped, Christ or Antichrist.’”
“Holy Father, if the miseries of this world are to be remedied by him,
and heaven suffers no injury, I shall not hate him.”
The old pope smiled his most subtle smile.
“Father Gondo, you will permit me also to tell you a Sicilian story. The
story goes, Father Gondo, that when Our Lord was busy creating the world,
He wished one day to know if He had much more work to do. And He sent San
Pietro out to see if the world was finished.
“When San Pietro came back, he said: ‘Every one is weeping and sobbing
and lamenting.’
“‘Then the world is not finished,’ said Our Lord, and He went on working.
“Three days later Our Lord sent San Pietro again to the earth.
“‘Everyone is laughing and rejoicing and playing,’ said San Pietro, when
he came back.
“‘Then the world is not finished,’ said Our Lord, and He went on working.
“San Pietro was dispatched for the third time.
“‘Some are weeping and some are laughing,’ he said, when he came back.
“‘Then the world is finished,’ said Our Lord.