Old Faustina had returned to Capri and had sought out the Emperor. She
told him her story, and while she spoke she hardly dared look at him.
During her absence the illness had made frightful ravages, and she
thought to herself: “If there had been any pity among the Celestials,
they would have let me die before being forced to tell this poor,
tortured man that all hope is gone.”
To her astonishment, Tiberius listened to her with the utmost
indifference. When she related how the great miracle performer had been
crucified the same day that she had arrived in Jerusalem, and how near
she had been to saving him, she began to weep under the weight of her
failure. But Tiberius only remarked: “You actually grieve over this? Ah,
Faustina! A whole lifetime in Rome has not weaned you then of faith in
sorcerers and miracle workers, which you imbibed during your childhood
in the Sabine mountains!”
Then the old woman perceived that Tiberius had never expected any help
from the Prophet of Nazareth.
“Why did you let me make the journey to that distant land, if you
believed all the while that it was useless?”
“You are the only friend I have,” said the Emperor. “Why should I deny
your prayer, so long as I still have the power to grant it.”
But the old woman did not like it that the Emperor had taken her for a
fool.
“Ah! this is your usual cunning,” she burst out. “This is just what I
can tolerate least in you.”
“You should not have come back to me,” said Tiberius. “You should have
remained in the mountains.”
It looked for a moment as if these two, who had clashed so often, would
again fall into a war of words, but the old woman’s anger subsided
immediately. The times were past when she could quarrel in earnest with
the Emperor. She lowered her voice again; but she could not altogether
relinquish every effort to obtain justice.
“But this man was really a prophet,” she said. “I have seen him. When
his eyes met mine, I thought he was a god. I was mad to allow him to go
to his death.”
“I am glad you let him die,” said Tiberius. “He was a traitor and a
dangerous agitator.”
Faustina was about to burst into another passion—then checked herself.
“I have spoken with many of his friends in Jerusalem about him,” said
she. “He had not committed the crimes for which he was arraigned.”
“Even if he had not committed just these crimes, he was surely no better
than any one else,” said the Emperor wearily. “Where will you find the
person who during his lifetime has not a thousand times deserved death?”
But these remarks of the Emperor decided Faustina to undertake something
which she had until now hesitated about. “I will show you a proof of his
power,” said she. “I said to you just now that I laid my kerchief over
his face. It is the same kerchief which I hold in my hand. Will you look
at it a moment?”
She spread the kerchief out before the Emperor, and he saw delineated
thereon the shadowy likeness of a human face.
The old woman’s voice shook with emotion as she continued: “This man saw
that I loved him. I know not by what power he was enabled to leave me
his portrait. But mine eyes fill up with tears when I see it.”
The Emperor leaned forward and regarded the picture, which appeared to
be made up of blood and tears and the dark shadows of grief. Gradually
the whole face stood out before him, exactly as it had been imprinted
upon the kerchief. He saw the blood-drops on the forehead, the piercing
thorn-crown, the hair, which was matted with blood, and the mouth whose
lips seemed to quiver with agony.
He bent down closer and closer to the picture. The face stood out
clearer and clearer. From out the shadow-like outlines, all at once, he
saw the eyes sparkle as with hidden life. And while they spoke to him of
the most terrible suffering, they also revealed a purity and sublimity
which he had never seen before.
He lay upon his couch and drank in the picture with his eyes. “Is this a
mortal?” he said softly and slowly. “Is this a mortal?”
Again he lay still and regarded the picture. The tears began to stream
down his cheeks. “I mourn over thy death, thou Unknown!” he whispered.
“Faustina!” he cried out at last. “Why did you let this man die? He
would have healed me.”
And again he was lost in the picture.
“O Man!” he said, after a moment, “if I can not gain my health from
thee, I can still avenge thy murder. My hand shall rest heavily upon
those who have robbed me of thee!”
Again he lay still a long time; then he let himself glide down to the
floor—and he knelt before the picture:
“Thou art Man!” said he. “Thou art that which I never dreamed I should
see.” And he pointed to his disfigured face and destroyed hands. “I and
all others are wild beasts and monsters, but thou art Man.”
He bowed his head so low before the picture that it touched the floor.
“Have pity on me, thou Unknown!” he sobbed, and his tears watered the
stones.
“If thou hadst lived, thy glance alone would have healed me,” he said.
The poor old woman was terror-stricken over what she had done. It would
have been wiser not to show the Emperor the picture, thought she. From
the start she had been afraid that if he should see it his grief would
be too overwhelming.
And in her despair over the Emperor’s grief, she snatched the picture
away, as if to remove it from his sight.
Then the Emperor looked up. And, lo! his features were transformed, and
he was as he had been before the illness. It was as if the illness had
had its root and sustenance in the contempt and hatred of mankind which
had lived in his heart; and it had been forced to flee the very moment
he had felt love and compassion.
The following day Tiberius despatched three messengers.
The first messenger traveled to Rome with the command that the Senate
should institute investigations as to how the governor of Palestine
administered his official duties and punish him, should it appear that
he oppressed the people and condemned the innocent to death.
The second messenger went to the vineyard-laborer and his wife, to thank
them and reward them for the counsel they had given the Emperor, and
also to tell them how everything had turned out. When they had heard
all, they wept silently, and the man said: “I know that all my life I
shall ponder what would have happened if these two had met.” But the
woman answered: “It could not happen in any other way. It was too great
a thought that these two should meet. God knew that the world could not
support it.”
The third messenger traveled to Palestine and brought back with him to
Capri some of Jesus’ disciples, and these began to teach there the
doctrine that had been preached by the Crucified One.
When the disciples landed at Capri, old Faustina lay upon her death-bed.
Still they had time before her death to make of her a follower of the
great Prophet, and to baptize her. And in the baptism she was called
Veronica, because to her it had been granted to give to mankind the true
likeness of their Saviour.
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[Illustration: Robin Redbreast]