I
In the year of the world five thousand four hundred and eight, sixteen
hundred and forty-eight years after the coming of Christ, and in the
twenty-third year of his own life on earth, Sabbataï Zevi, men said,
declared himself at Smyrna to his disciples--the long-expected Messiah
of the Jews. They were gathered together in the winter midnight, a
little group of turbaned, long-robed figures, the keen stars
innumerable overhead, the sea stretching sombrely at their feet, and
the swarming Oriental city, a black mystery of roofs, minarets, and
cypresses, dominated by the Acropolis, asleep on the slopes of its
snow-clad hill.
Anxiously they had awaited their Prophet's emergence from his
penitential lustration in the icy harbor, and as he now stood before
them in naked majesty, the water dripping from his black beard and
hair, a perfect manly figure, scarred only by self-inflicted
scourgings, awe and wonder held them breathless with expectation.
Inhaling that strange fragrance of divinity that breathed from his
body, and penetrated by the kingliness of his mien, the passionate yet
spiritual beauty of his dark, dreamy face, they awaited the great
declaration. Some common instinct told them that he would speak
to-night, he, the master of mystic silences.
The _Zohar_--that inspired book of occult wisdom--had long since
foretold this year as the first of the epoch of regeneration, and ever
since the shrill ram's horn had heralded its birth, the souls of
Sabbataï Zevi's disciples had been tense for the great moment. Surely
it was to announce himself at last that he had summoned them, blessed
partakers in the greatest moment of human and divine history.
What would he say?
Austere, silent, hedged by an inviolable sanctity, he stood long
motionless, realizing, his followers felt, the Cabalistic teaching as
to the Messiah, incarnating the Godhead through the primal Adam, pure,
sinless, at one with himself and elemental Nature. At last he raised
his luminous eyes heavenwards, and said in clear, calm tones one
word--