A gigantic blue lightning-flash rent the clouds, lighted the sky, the earth, the crosses, the arms of the soldiers, and the mob huddled together, like a flock of sheep, filled with distress and terror.
After the lightning came deeper darkness. Close to the litter was heard the sobbing of women, who also drew near the cross. There was something ominous in this sobbing amid silence. Those who were lost in the multitude began now to cry out. Here and there were heard terrified voices, —
“O Yah! oj lanu! [woe to us]! O Yah! Have they not crucified the Just One?”
“Who gave true testimony! O Yah!”
“Who raised the dead!”
And another voice called, —
“Woe to thee, Jerusalem!”
Still another, —
“The earth trembles!”
A new lightning-flash disclosed the depths of the sky and in them gigantic figures of fire, as it were. The voices were silent, or rather were lost in the whistling of the whirlwind, which sprang up all at once with tremendous force; it swept off a multitude of mantles and kerchiefs, and hurled them away over the height.
Voices cried out anew, —
“The earth trembles!”
Some began to flee. Terror nailed others to the spot; and they stood fixed in amazement, without thought, with this dull impression only, — that something awful was happening.
But, on a sudden, the gloom began to be less dense. Wind rolled the clouds over, twisted and tore them like rotten rags; brightness increased gradually. At last the dark ceiling was rent, and through the opening rushed in all at once a torrent of sunlight; presently the heights became visible and with them the crosses and the terrified faces of the people.
The head of the Nazarene had fallen low on his breast; it was as pale as wax; his eyes were closed, his lips blue.
“He is dead,” whispered Antea.
“He is dead,” repeated Cinna.
At this moment a centurion thrust his spear into the side of the dead. A wonderful thing: the return of light and the sight of that death seemed to appease that crowd. They pushed nearer and nearer, especially since the soldiers did not bar approach. Among the throng were heard voices, —
“Come down from the cross! Come down from the cross!”
Antea cast her eyes once more on that low-hanging head, then she said, as if to herself, —
“Will he rise from the dead?”
In view of death, which had put blue spots on his eyes and mouth, in view of those arms stretched beyond measure, and in view of that motionless body which had settled down with the weight of dead things, her voice trembled with despairing doubt.
Not less was the disappointment rending Cinna’s soul. He also believed not that the Nazarene would rise from the dead; but he believed that had he lived, he alone, with his power, good or evil, might have given health to Antea. Meanwhile more numerous voices were calling:
“Come down from the cross! Come down from the cross!”
“Come down!” repeated Cinna, with despair. “Cure her for me; take my life!”
The air became purer and purer. The mountains were still in mist, but above the height and the city the sky had cleared perfectly. “Turris Antonia” glittered in sunlight as bright itself as the sun. The air had become fresh, and was full of swallows. Cinna gave command to return.
It was an afternoon hour. Near the house Antea said, —
“Hecate has not come to-day.”
Cinna also was thinking of that.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE vision did not appear the next day. The sick woman was unusually animated, for Timon had come from Cæsarea. Alarmed for the life of his daughter and frightened by Cinna’s letters, he had left Alexandria a few days earlier to look once again on his only child before her parting. At Cinna’s heart hope began to knock again, as if to give notice to receive it. But he had not courage to open the door to that guest; he did not dare to harbor hope.
In the visions which had been killing Antea, there had been intervals, it is true, not of two days, but of one in Alexandria, and in the desert. The present relief Cinna attributed to Timon’s arrival, and her impressions at the cross, which so filled the sick woman’s soul that she could talk of nothing else, even with her father.
Timon listened with attention; he did not contradict; he meditated and merely inquired carefully about the doctrine of the Nazarene, of which Antea knew, for that matter, only what the procurator had told her.
In general she felt healthier and somewhat stronger; and when midday had passed and gone, real solace shone in her eyes. She repeated that that was a favorable day, and begged her husband to make note of it.
The day was really sad and gloomy. Rain had begun in the early morning, at first very heavy, then fine and cutting, from low clouds which extended monotonously. Only in the evening did the sky break through, and the great fiery globe of the sun look out of the mists, paint in purple and gold the gray rocks, the white marble porticoes of the villas, and descend with endless gleams toward the Mediterranean.
The next morning was wonderfully beautiful. The weather promised to be warm, but the morning was fresh, the sky without a spot, and the earth so sunk in a blue bath that all objects seemed blue. Antea had given directions to bear her out and place her under the favorite pistachio-tree, so that from the elevation on which the tree stood she might delight herself with the view of the blue and gladsome distance.
Cinna and Timon did not move a step from the litter, and watched the face of the sick woman carefully. There was in it a certain alarm of expectation, but it was not that mortal fear which used to seize her at the approach of midday. Her eyes cast a more lively light, and her cheeks bloomed with a slight flush. Cinna thought indeed at moments that Antea might recover; and at this thought he wanted to throw himself on the ground, to sob from delight, and bless the gods. Then again he feared that that was perhaps the last gleam of the dying lamp. Wishing to gain hope from some source, he glanced every little while at Timon; but similar thoughts must have been passing through his head, for he avoided Cinna’s glances. None of the three mentioned by a word that midday was near. But Cinna, casting his eyes every moment at the shadows, saw with beating heart that they were growing shorter and shorter.
And he sat as if sunk in thought. Perhaps the least alarmed was Antea herself. Lying in the open litter, her head rested on a purple pillow; she breathed with delight that pure air which the breeze brought from the west, from the distant sea. But before midday the breeze had ceased to blow. The heat increased; warmed by the sun, the pepperwort of the cliffs and the thickets of nard began to give out a strong and intoxicating odor. Bright butterflies balanced themselves over bunches of anemones. From the crevices of the rocks little lizards, already accustomed to that litter and those people, sprang out, one after the other, confident as usual, and also cautious in every movement. The whole world was enjoying that serene peace, that warmth, that calm sweetness and azure drowsiness.
Timon and Cinna seemed also to dissolve in that sunny rest. The sick woman closed her eyes as if a light sleep had seized her; and nothing interrupted that silence except sighs, which from time to time raised her breast.
Meanwhile Cinna noticed that his shadow had lost its lengthened form and was lying there under his feet.
It was midday.
All at once Antea opened her eyes and called out in a kind of strange voice, —
“Caius, give me thy hand.”
He sprang up, and all the blood was stiffened to ice in his heart. The hour of terrible visions had come.
Her eyes opened wider and wider.
“Dost thou see,” said she, “how light collects there and binds the air; how it trembles, glitters, and approaches me?”
“Antea, look not in that direction!” cried Cinna.
But, oh, wonder! there was no fear on her face. Her lips were parted; her eyes were gazing, and opening wider and wider; a certain immeasurable delight began to brighten her face.
�
��The pillar of light approaches me,” said she. “See! that is he; that is the Nazarene! — he is smiling. O Mild! O Merciful! The transfixed hands he stretches out like a mother to me. Caius, he brings me health, salvation, and calls me to himself.”
Cinna grew very pale, and said, —
“Whithersoever he calls us, let us follow him.”
A moment later, on the other side, on the stony path leading to the city, appeared Pontius Pilate. Before he had come near, it was evident from his face that he was bringing news, which, as a man of judgment, he considered a fresh, absurd invention of the ignorant and credulous rabble. In fact, while still at some distance, he began to call, wiping perspiration from his brow, —
“Imagine to thyself, they declare that he has risen from the dead!”
BE THOU BLESSED.
ONCE on a bright moonlight night the wise and mighty Krishna fell into deep meditation, and said, —
“I thought man the most beautiful creation on earth; but I was mistaken. Here I see the lotus, rocked by the night breeze. Oh, how much more beautiful it is than any living being; its leaves have just opened to the silver light of the moon, and I cannot wrest my eyes from it!
“Among men there is nothing to compare with it,” repeated he, sighing.
But after a while he thought, —
“Why should I, a god, not create, by the power of my word, a being who would be among men what the lotus is among flowers? Let it be then to the delight of man and the earth. Lotus, change thou into a living maiden and stand before me.”
The water trembled slightly, as if touched by the wings of a swallow; the night grew bright; the moon shone with more power in the sky; the night thrushes sang more distinctly, then stopped on a sudden, and the charm was accomplished: before Krishna stood the lotus in human shape.
The god himself was astonished.
“Thou wert a flower of the lake,” said he; “henceforth be the flower of my thought, and speak.”
The maiden began to whisper in a voice as low as the sound made by the white leaves of the lotus when kissed by a summer breeze, —
“Lord, thou hast changed me into a living being; where now dost thou command me to dwell? Remember, lord, that when I was a flower I trembled and drew in my leaves at every breath of the wind. I feared heavy rain; I feared storms; I feared thunder and lightning; I feared even the burning rays of the sun. Thou hast commanded me to be the incarnation of the lotus; hence I have kept my former nature, and now I fear the earth and all that is on it. Where dost thou command me to dwell?”
Krishna raised his wise eyes to the stars, meditated a while, and then asked, —
“Dost thou wish to live on the summits of mountains?”
“Snow and cold are there, lord, I am afraid.”
“Well, I will build thee a palace of crystal at the bottom of the lake.”
“In the depths of the waters move serpents and other monsters; I am afraid, lord.”
“Dost thou prefer the boundless steppes?”
“Whirlwinds and tempests rush over the steppes like wild herds.”
“What is to be done with thee, incarnate flower? Ha! In the caves of Ellora live holy hermits. Wilt thou dwell far away from the world, in those caves?”
“It is dark there, lord; I am afraid.”
Krishna sat on a stone, and rested his head on his hand. The maiden stood before him, trembling and timid.
Meanwhile the dawn began to brighten the sky on the east. The surface of the lake, the palms, and the bamboos were gilded. At the water, rosy herons, blue storks, in the forest, peacocks and bengalee were heard, and these were accompanied by distant sounds of strings stretched over pearl shells, and by words of human song. Krishna awoke from meditation and said, —
“That is Valmiki, the poet, saluting the rising sun.”
After a while the curtain of purple flowers covering the climbing plants was pushed aside, and Valmiki appeared at the lake.
When he saw the incarnate lotus the poet ceased to play, the pearl shell fell from his grasp to the earth, his arms dropped at his sides, and he stood dumb, as if the mighty Krishna had made him a tree at the edge of the water.
The god was delighted with this wonder at his work, and said, —
“Awake, Valmiki, and speak.”
And Valmiki said, —
“I love!”
This was the only word that he remembered, and the only word that he could utter.
Krishna’s face was radiant at once.
“Wonderful maiden, I have found for thee a worthy dwelling-place in the world: thou wilt dwell in the heart of the poet.”
Valmiki repeated a second time, —
“I love!”
The will of the mighty Krishna, the will of the deity, began to urge the maiden toward the heart of the poet. The god also made the heart of Valmiki as transparent as crystal.
Calm as a summer day, quiet as the surface of the Ganges, the maiden advanced toward the dwelling prepared for her. But suddenly, when she looked into the heart of Valmiki, her face grew pale, and terror surrounded her, as a winter wind. Krishna was astonished.
“Incarnate flower,” inquired he, “dost thou fear even the heart of a poet?”
“O lord,” answered the maiden, “where hast thou commanded me to dwell? There in that one heart I see the snowy summits of mountains, the abysses of waters, full of marvellous creatures, the steppe with its whirlwinds and tempests, and the caves of Ellora with their darkness; therefore I am afraid, O lord!”
But the good and wise Krishna replied, —
“Calm thyself, incarnate flower. If in the heart of Valmiki there lie lonely snows, be thou the warm breath of spring, which will melt them; if in it there be the abyss of waters, be thou the pearl in that abyss; if in it there be the desert of the steppe, sow flowers of happiness there; if in it there be the dark caves of Ellora, be thou in that darkness the sun-ray—”
And Valmiki, who during that time had recovered his speech, added, —
“And be thou blessed!”
AT THE SOURCE.
I AM a student of yesterday; my diploma of doctor of philosophy is not dry yet, — that is true. I have neither wealth nor position. My whole fortune consists of a rather poor little house and a few hundred rubles’ income. I can understand, therefore, why Tola’s parents refused me her hand; but they did more, — they insulted me.
But why? What have I done? I brought them, as if on the palm of my hand, a very honest heart, and I said: “Give her to me. I will be the best of sons, and till death I shall not cease to repay you; her I will worship; her I will love and protect.”
It is true that I said this stupidly, in a strange voice, while stammering and panting. You knew, however, that I was dragging my soul out, that through me was expressed a feeling the equal of which you could not meet in this world every day; and if you had chosen to refuse me, why not refuse like kind people, with some slight compassion in your hearts, but you insulted me.
You who claim to be Christians, and claim to be idealists, how were you to know what I might do on leaving your house after such a refusal? Who told you that I would not put a bullet into my head, — first, because I could not live without her, and second, because I could not understand the contradiction between your pretended principles and the real practice of your life, that phariseeism, that falsehood? Why had you no mercy on me even for a moment? It was not right to trample even me without cause; trampling inflicts pain. Were it not for you, I might achieve something in this world. I am young, little more than a student, without wealth, without position, — that may be! But I have my future; you spat on it, but, as God lives, I know not why you did so.
Those icy faces! that contemptuous indignation! Two days ago I could not imagine that those people could be such. “We thought you a man of honor; but you have deceived us, you have abused our confidence—” These are the words with which they slashed me across the face, as with a whip. A moment before they had congratula
ted me on my diploma as heartily as if I had been their son; and only when, pale from emotion, I told them what had been the greatest spur in my efforts, their cordiality and smiles were extinguished, their faces grew rigid, frost breathed from them — and it turned out that I had “abused their confidence.”
They so crushed, dazed, trampled me that after a while I thought myself that I had done something disgraceful, that I had really deceived them.
But how? What is the position? Who is the deceiver, who the deceived, who plays the contemptible rôle? Either I have gone mad altogether, or there is nothing mean in this, that a man loves honestly and desires to give his soul, blood, and toil to another. If your indignation was genuine, who is the fool in this case?
Ah, Panna Tola! and I was deceived in thee also, — I who counted on thee with such confidence. “We are sure,” said they, “that our daughter has never authorized you in any way to take this step.” Of course I did not contradict. And then that “daughter” appeared with all the unspeakable coolness of a well-bred young lady, and stammered, with drooping eyes, that she could not understand even how such a thought could occur to me.
Dost thou not understand? Listen, Panna Tola: thou didst not say, “I love;” I admit that. I have not thy bond and signature, but even if I had I would not present them. I will say this much, however: there is justice and there is a tribunal, — all one where they are, whether somewhere beyond the clouds, or in the human conscience; before this tribunal thou must say: I have deceived this man; I have denied him; I have brought him humiliation and misfortune.
I know not which failed thee, heart or courage; but I know that thou hast deceived me horribly. I love thee still. I do not wish to malign thee; but when it is a question of ruining or saving, there is need of courage. Love and honesty must be greater than fear, or the timbers of an edifice raised with great toil will fall on some one’s head. They have fallen on mine. I built my whole future on blind faith in thy love; and the result proved that I built on sand, for courage failed thee at the critical moment, since having to choose between the evil humor of thy parents and my misfortune, thou didst choose my misfortune.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 699