Produced by David Widger
THE MIRACLE OF THE GREAT ST. NICOLAS
From “The Seven Wives Of Bluebeard & Other Marvellous Tales”
By Anatole France
Translated by D. B. Stewart
Edited By James Lewis May And Bernard Miall
John Lane Company MCMXX
ST. NICOLAS, Bishop of Myra in Lycia, lived in the time of Constantine
the Great. The most ancient and weighty of those authors who have
mentioned him celebrate his virtues, his labours, and his worth: they
give abundant proofs of his sanctity; but none of them records the
miracle of the salting-tub. Nor is it mentioned in the Golden Legend.
This silence is important: still one does not willingly consent to throw
doubt upon a fact so widely known, which is attested by the ballad which
all the world knows:
“There were three little children
In the fields they went to glean.”
This famous text expressly states that a cruel pork-butcher put
the innocents “like pigs into the salting-vat.” That is to say, he
apparently preserved them, cut into pieces, in a bath of brine. This is,
to be sure, how pork is cured: but one is surprised to read further on
that the three little children remained seven years in pickle, whereas
it is usual to begin withdrawing the pieces of flesh from the tub, with
a wooden fork, at the end of about six weeks. The text is explicit:
according to the elegy, it was seven years after the crime that St.
Nicolas entered the accursed hostelry. He asked for supper. The landlord
offered him a piece of ham:
“‘Wilt eat of ham? Tis dainty food.’
‘I’ll have no ham: it is not good.
‘Wilt cat a piece of tender veal?
‘I will not make of that my meal.
Young salted flesh I want, and that
Has lain seven years within the vat.
Wheras the butcher heard this said
Out of the door full fast he fled.”
The Man of God immediately resuscitated the tender victims by the laying
of hands on the salting-tub.
Such is, in substance, the story of the old anonymous rhyme. It bears
the inimitable stamp of honesty and good faith. Scepticism seems
ill-inspired when it attacks the most vital memories of the popular
mind. It is not without a lively satisfaction that I have found myself
able to reconcile the authority of the ballad with the silence of the
ancient biographers of the Lycian pontiff. I am happy to proclaim the
result of my long meditations and scholastic researches. The miracle of
the salting-tub is true, in so far as essentials are concerned, but it
was not the blessed Bishop of Myra who performed it; it was another St.
Nicolas, for there were two: one, as we have already stated, Bishop
of Myra in Lycia; the other more recent, Bishop of Trinqueballe in
Vervignole. For me was reserved the task of distinguishing between them.
It was the Bishop of Trinqueballe who rescued the three little boys from
the salting-tub. I shall establish the fact by authentic documents, and
no one will have occasion to deplore the end of a legend.
I have been fortunate enough to recover the entire history of the Bishop
Nicolas and the children whom he resuscitated. I have fashioned it
into in a narrative which will be read, I hope, with both pleasure and
profit.
CHAPTER I
NICOLAS, a scion of an illustrious family of Vervignole, showed marks of
sanctity from his earliest childhood, and at the age of fourteen vowed
to consecrate himself to the Lord. Having embraced the ecclesiastical
profession, he was raised, while still young, by popular acclamation and
the wish of the Chapter, to the see of St. Cromadaire, the apostle of
Vervignole, and first Bishop of Trinqueballe. He exercised his pastoral
ministry with piety, governed his clergy with wisdom, taught the people,
and feared not to remind the great of Justice and Moderation. He was
liberal, profuse in almsgiving, and set aside for the poor the greater
part of his wealth.
His castle proudly lifted its crenelated walls and pepper-pot roofs from
the summit of a hill overlooking the town. He made of it a refuge where
all who were pursued by the secular arm might find a place of refuge. In
the lower hall, the largest to be seen in all Vervignole, the table laid
for meals was so long that those who sat at one end saw it lose itself
in the distance in an indistinct point, and when the torches upon
it were lighted it recalled the tail of the comet which appeared in
Vervignole to announce the death of King Comus. The holy St. Nicolas sat
at the upper end. There he entertained the principal folk of the town
and of the kingdom, and a multitude of clergy and laymen. But on his
right there was always reserved a seat for the poor man who might come
begging for his bread at the door.
Children, particularly, aroused the solicitude of the good St. Nicolas.
He delighted in their innocence, and he felt for them with the heart of
a father and the bowels of a mother. He had the virtues and the morals
of an apostle. Yearly, in the dress of a simple monk, with a white staff
in his hand, he would visit his flock, desirous of seeing everything
with his own eyes; and in order that no adversity or disorder should
escape his notice he would traverse, accompanied by a single priest, the
wildest parts of his diocese, crossing, in winter, the flooded rivers,
climbing mountains, and plunging into the thick forests. One day, having
ridden since dawn upon his mule, in company with the Deacon Modernus,
thorny thickets through which his mount with difficulty forced a winding
path. The Deacon Modernus followed him with much difficulty on his mule,
which carried the baggage.
Overcome with hunger and fatigue, the man of God said to Modernus:
“Let us halt here, my son, and if you still have a little bread and wine
we will sup here, for I feel that I hardly have the strength to proceed
further, and you, although the younger, must be nearly as tired as I.”
“Monseigneur,” answered Modernus, “there remains neither a drop of wine
nor a crumb of bread; for, by your orders, I gave all to some people on
the road, who had less need of it than ourselves.”
“Without a doubt,” replied the Bishop, “had there been a few scraps
left in your wallet we should have eaten them with pleasure, for it
is fitting that those who govern the Church should be nourished on the
leavings of the poor. But since you have nothing left it is because God
has desired it so, and He has surely desired it for our good and profit.
It is possible that He will for ever hide from us the reason of this
favour: perhaps, on the other hand, He will quickly make it manifest.
Meanwhile, I think the only thing left for us is to push on until we
find some arbutus berries and blackberries for our own nourishment, and
some grass for our mules, and, being thus refreshed, to lie down upon a
bed of leaves.”
“As you please, Monseigneur,” answered Modernus, pricking his mount.
They travelled all night, and a part of the following morning; then,
having climbed a fairly steep ascent, they suddenly found themselves at
the border of the wood, and beheld at their feet a plain covered by a
yellowish sky, and crossed by four white roads, which lost themselves
in the mist. They took that to the left, an old Roman road, formerly
frequented by merchants and pilgrims, but deserted since the war had
laid waste this part of Vervignole. Dense clouds were gathering in the
sky, across which birds were flying; a stifling atmosphere weighed down
upon the dumb, livid earth. Lightning flashed on the horizon. They urged
on their wearied mules. Suddenly a mighty wind bent the tops of the
trees, making the boughs crack and the battered foliage moan. The
thunder muttered, and heavy drops of rain began to fall.
As they made their way through the storm, the lightning flashing about
them, along a road which had become a torrent, they perceived, by the
light of a flash, a house outside which there hung a branch of holly,
the sign of hospitality.
The inn appeared deserted; nevertheless, the host advanced towards them,
a man fierce yet humble, with a great knife at his belt, and asked what
they wished for.
“A lodging, and a scrap of bread, with a drop of wine,” answered the
Bishop, “for we are weary and benumbed with cold.”
While the host was fetching wine from the cellar, and Modernus was
taking the mules to the stable, St. Nicolas, sitting at the hearth
beside a dying fire, cast a glance round the smoky room. Dust and dirt
covered the benches and casks; spiders spun their webs between the
worm-eaten joists, whence hung scanty bunches of onions. In a dark
corner the salting-tub displayed its iron-hooped belly.
In those days the demons used to take a hand in domestic life in a
far more intimate fashion than they do to-day. They haunted houses,
concealed in the salt-box, the butter-tub, or some other hiding-place;
they spied upon the people of the house, and watched for the opportunity
to tempt them and lead them into evil. Then, too, the angels made more
frequent appearances among Christian folk.
Now a devil, as big as a hazel-nut, who was hidden among the burning
logs, spoke up and said to the holy Bishop:
“Look at that salting-tub, Father; it is well worth a look. It is the
best salting-tub in the whole of Vervignole. It is, indeed, the model
and paragon of salting-tubs. When the master here, Seigneur Garum,
received it from the hands of a skilful cooper he perfumed it with
juniper, thyme, and rosemary. Seigneur Garum has not his equal
in bleeding the meat, boning it, and cutting it up, carefully,
thoughtfully, and lovingly, and steeping it in salted liquors by which
it is preserved and embalmed. He is without a rival for seasoning,
concentrating, boiling down, skimming, straining, and decanting the
pickle. Taste his mild-cured pork, father, and you will lick your
fingers: taste his mild-cured pork, Nicolas, and you will have something
to say about it.”
But in these words, and above all in the voice that uttered them (it
grated like a saw), the holy Bishop recognized an evil spirit. He
made the sign of the Cross, whereupon the little devil exploded with a
horrible noise and a very bad smell, just like a chestnut thrown into
the fire without having had its skin split.
And an angel from Heaven appeared, resplendent in light and said to
Nicolas:
“Nicolas, beloved of the Lord, you must know that three little children
have been in that salting-tub for seven years; Garum, the innkeeper,
cut up these tender infants, and put them in salt and pickle. Arise,
Nicolas, and pray that they may come to life again. For, if you
intercede for them, O Pontiff, the Lord, who loves you, will restore
them to life.”
During this speech Modernus entered the room, but he did not see the
angel, nor did he hear him, for he was not sufficiently holy to be able
to communicate with the heavenly spirits.
The angel further said:
“Nicolas, son of God, lay your hands on the salting-tub, and the three
children will be resuscitated.”
The blessed Nicolas, filled with horror, pity, zeal, and hope, gave
thanks to God, and when the innkeeper reappeared with a jug in either
hand, the Saint said to him in a terrible voice:
“Garum, open the salting-tub!”
Whereupon, Garum, overcome by fear, dropped both his jugs.
And the saintly Bishop Nicolas stretched out his hands, and said:
“Children, arise!”
At these words, the lid of the salting-tub was lifted up, and three
young boys emerged.
“Children,” said the Bishop, “give thanks to God, who through me, has
raised you from out the salting-tub.”
And turning towards the innkeeper, who was trembling in every limb, he
said:
“Cruel man, recognize the three children whom you shamefully put to
death. May you loathe your crime, and repent, that God may pardon you!”
The innkeeper, filled with terror, fled into the storm, amidst the
thunder and lightning.