So that the air, when it is vapor, has neither figure nor color, nonetheless when it is condensed, can take both form and color, as is clearly shown in the clouds. So do the angels take the forms of physical bodies, formed of the air, condensing these by divine spirit as necessary into the physical forms they wish to take.3
“Veramente, that’s a very poetic notion,” said Lucia, serving us a generous and dense caffè italiano. “Angels made out of clouds—how enchanting!”
Romano smiled.
“So all those people who say they’ve seen an angel can at least say they’re in the good company of Thomas Aquinas.”
“But if we start to think of these biblical figures in such physical terms,” I objected, “then don’t we end up with a very materialistic reading of the Bible overall?”
“It becomes more balanced,” interjected Romano gravely. “It causes us to think that the physical is part of the same whole as the spiritual. Both sides are in a constant and perfect interaction. They’re not different places, as they were thought to be by the theological scholars who came before Thomas Aquinas.”
Lucia finally moved the coffee pot to one side and sat down with us. “Enough of this discussione! It’s time for the pasta!”
In her presence, the conversation relaxed, and she recounted her plans for the new museum and the trouble she was having getting her proposal looked at by the local politicians.
“All they want to talk about is voter fraud and the pork industry. Imagine if I threw the grande segreto of the two Jesuses at them!”
After our third coffee and our second pastry, we were finally at a point where we could tackle the issue that had brought me there. Romano handed me a small volume that I opened with interest. On the cover, there was a reproduction of the first version of The Virgin of the Rocks, beside some other religious paintings I couldn’t identify.
“I wrote this,” he said modestly.
The book was titled The Two Baby Jesuses: The Story of a Conspiracy and had been published by a small, niche press.4
“The first thing you should know,” he began, “is that the evidence for there being two child Jesuses comes not only from Rudolf Steiner, but also from the Gospels themselves.”
Romano seemed to be quite serious.
“The Book of Matthew tells of a baby born to a couple of newlyweds in which the husband, Joseph, is a descendant of King David. This meant that the baby was a candidate to fulfill a prophecy of the time, that a son of kings, born in Bethlehem in Judaea, would rise to become an immensely powerful king himself. Moreover, it is also Matthew who tells us that King Herod, blind with rage, cooks up a plan to destroy this infant who threatens his lineage, and who plans to use some nomadic wise men to find him.”
Another damn prophecy, I thought to myself. But I said nothing and let Romano continue.
“Luke, on the other hand, describes quite a different genealogy, which goes through Nathan, the son of King David, all the way back to Adam and Eve. The Jesus he refers to is from Nazareth, and not the same Jesus that Matthew describes. Luke supports this fact with evidence, citing points of timing deduced from the Roman census. According to this, the two Jesuses were born at least four or five years apart.”
Romano then opened his book to a quote of Rudolf Steiner’s and handed it to me to read.
At the beginning of our era there lived two men, both named Joseph, one in Bethlehem and the other in Nazareth. Both had wives named Mary. The Mary from Nazareth was pure and virginal, while the Mary from Bethlehem carried with her the full legacy of a painful past. Both of the men named Joseph were descended from David—the one from Bethlehem by way of the royal line of Solomon, and the one from Nazareth by way of the clerical line of David’s son Nathan.5
Romano smiled. “That’s the beginning of the story. Both couples have a son and they both name him Jesus. The royal, or Solomonic, one that Matthew mentions is the one who was found by the Magi. The other, the one descended from Nathan, the priestly or clerical one in the Book of Luke—he is the one adored by shepherds. When we talk about these various stories, which we do mostly from memory, we tend to blend them as if all the evangelists basically told the same stories, whereas in fact that’s not the case. The different Gospels sometimes tell different stories, and these often contradict each other.”
Once again I began to object. “Yes, but it’s difficult to believe that—”
“Hold on, Javier. Aspetta,” Lucia broke in. She began to refill my coffee cup. “The best part is coming up.”
Romano smiled again. “Grazie, Lucia. You see, Steiner is the only person who has managed to give a clear explanation for these contradictions. And he does it using a complex system of thought he developed that he claimed allowed him to get at hidden truths. In his books and conferences he used to refer to a ‘spiritual science’ as a counterpoint to our traditional science. Under this spiritual form of science, concepts such as the soul, reincarnation, and higher or lower planes of existence, are taken for granted. And it was through this other science, and using decidedly nonmaterial sources, that Steiner somehow managed to reconstruct the life story of those two boys.”
“You mean he had some kind of revelation?” I asked, thinking of Amadeo and his raptures.
“Call it what you like, Javier. To experience this spiritual science, you have to actively separate yourself from the physical, material world. This is what Steiner did.”
“Was he a medium?”
“No, of course not. Steiner was a philosopher. You know, if he had died at the age of fifty, before he got into the occult, he would now be considered alongside such names as Bergson, or Husserl, or Karl Popper. But his curiosity took him in other directions, which had nothing to do with spiritualism.”
“So how did he arrive at these revelations, then?” I asked.
“We can only speculate. Steiner was convinced that behind this material world that we know through our senses there exists a spiritual one. He believed that everyone carried the ability within them to access both worlds. With just a little training, for example, we could learn to take control of that twilight space between waking and sleep, and launch ourselves into the invisible world from there.”
“He thought anyone could do that?” I was incredulous.
“Actually, we do this now. When we’re reading a book that moves us, we go into an altered mental state, like going into a different world. When a painting or a piece of music reaches into us and really touches us, the same thing happens. It’s as if we raise ourselves above the material world and, just for a moment, are part of the sublime. Steiner experimented quite a bit with these altered states of consciousness, and got a lot of information from it.”
“Like about the two Jesuses?”
“Exactly. Steiner revealed details in a few of his conferences on how both of the Jesus boys—the Solomonic one and the Nathanic one—ended up living in the same village, and how their fathers actually got to be good friends. “The boy that Matthew describes distinguished himself early and was noticeably gifted, while Luke’s counterpart had trouble adapting to life and the world. The first one had normal, mortal siblings; the second was an only child. When the first boy was born, Gabriel appeared to his father in dreams, according to Matthew, whereas the second Jesus was born after Mary saw the archangel in a vision. As you can see, there were a lot of differences between the boys.”
My head was spinning. “Wow, okay—let’s say I believe all this. How did we end up combining them into one Jesus?”
Romano looked at me gravely. “Something happened.”
It sounded ominous.
He sighed. “This is the part that our rational minds have the most difficulty accepting. I’ll do my best to describe it.”
I nodded, extremely curious, willing him to continue.
“Well, according to Steiner, when the Nathanic—Luke’s—Jesus turned twelve, the two families traveled to Jerusalem with the boys for the festival of Passover. Do you remember the story
in the Book of Luke, when Jesus is lost in the temple? The Jesus who was lost was the one who found life difficult, and didn’t say much. But when they finally found him, three days later, he was transformed, with an erudition and knowledge of the scriptures that was remarkable for someone his age.
“Steiner writes that while in the temple, the souls of the two boys fused together and became one in a spiritual process that lasted three days. It’s difficult to explain, to understand. It left the Salomonic—gifted—Jesus debilitated to such an extent that he died shortly afterward, leaving all his knowledge with the other, Nathanic Jesus.”
I stared at Romano. “That sounds like science fiction, if you want to know the truth.”
“I agree.” He nodded. “We’re talking about a different kind of logic, you understand. But all four evangelists drop any reference to Jesus from that point in his life until much later, when he reappears in the river Jordan for his baptism, and begins his public life. That’s when the Christ that we know emerges—the anointed one, who understands what his mission is and is prepared to die for it.”
“And no one figured any of this out before Rudolf Steiner?” I asked, teasingly, recalling what Fovel had told me a few days ago.
“Oh, but of course they did! A number of painters stumbled over this idea unconsciously and even dared to put it into their work. They probably figured it out going down the same path as our philosopher, Steiner. The most famous of these was probably Bergognone,I a painter from the beginning of the sixteenth century who created a fresco depicting what happened to Jesus in the temple. You can see it in Milan, in the Basilica of Sant’Ambrogio, the church of his patron. It really is unique. That is why I have it on the cover of my book, right here.”
I looked where he was pointing, and my jaw dropped. I knew that church! I’d run across it by accident while wandering around the streets near the Sforza Castle in Milan during a study trip. I remembered admiring the solid gold altar at the time, and the bronze serpent that would, according to legend, fall from his column as the end of the world approached. I even remembered pondering St. Ambrose’s skeleton, displayed in the church’s crypt. But I hadn’t seen the fresco. Romano explained that it was among the treasures housed in the museum.
Ambrogio Bergognone or his school, Christ among the Doctors (beginning of the sixteenth century), Basilica of Sant’Ambrogio, Milan.
The panel is painted in a somewhat primitive style, but it wasn’t this archaic quality that struck me. In the image you can see two figures of Jesus as a child! One is seated on a throne and surrounded by church elders. Mary has a protective arm around the shoulders of the other, who looks as if he is preparing to leave. How was this possible?
“Well?” Romano was looking at me. “What do you make of that?”
I shrugged, and he went on, with a sureness that was overwhelming.
“As I mentioned, other artists at the time also showed this same idea in their paintings. Steiner suggested that the reason they discovered this secret at about this time was that it had become time to reveal it. There is a magnificent example of this in your Prado Museum. It is a painting by a disciple of Bergognone’s who also worked for Leonardo da Vinci. His name was Bernardino Luini. His painting of the Holy Family hangs in the Italian gallery, and was a present to Philip II from the city of Florence. You’ll see it; it’s quite beautiful. It shows the two boys embracing in front of Mary. She is painted in the style of Leonardo, and is also slightly cross-eyed.II Joseph is calmly leaning on his staff.
“When you get a chance to see this painting, Javier, do not rush. Take your time with it. Try to take in the atmosphere of it. Smell the lily that is flowering. Then, look down at the lower left corner of the painting. Below one of the boys you see the traditional long staff of John the Baptist, topped by a cross Perhaps then, there is no allusion here to a second boy Jesus . . . But what I actually believe, Javier, is that this painting was altered to make it acceptable to Philip II. I believe that the cross was added later, by someone who could not take the idea of a second Jesus.”
Bernardino Luini, The Holy Family (date?). The Prado Museum, Madrid.
“Added?” Here was another whole angle. It was difficult enough to decipher the paintings as they were, without wondering if they’d been altered.
“Yes, Javier. Many of the owners of these paintings went to some trouble to disguise them by adding items that made it look as if one of the boys was John the Baptist. Nobody wanted trouble with the Inquisition. So they would dress one of the boys in a goat skin or put in a cross like that to cover up the painting’s main message. Often they would ask the original artist to make these changes, but if he had died, or refused, they had no problem asking somebody else to do it. The point was to make the paintings seem more orthodox, so that no one would ask uncomfortable questions.”
“Can you give me any other examples of paintings that were altered?”
“As many as you like!” replied Romano. “How about Leonardo’s The Virgin of the Rocks?”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. In the first version—the one in the Louvre—there are two identical babies, but in the second version, which is in the National Gallery in London, one of the babies has the long cross of St. John over his shoulder. The thing is, that cross and the halos—they were not painted by Leonardo. They were added later.”
I couldn’t believe this. “Who would dare to defile a Leonardo?”
“It’s not quite how you think, Javier. You should remember that in those days, the artist was not as important as the painting’s message.”
Lucia was looking at me, her eyes blazing. “So, Javier. What do you think now?”
I didn’t know how to answer. My mind was spinning.
Romano went on. “I believe that the hiding of this truth was actually a large conspiracy.”
“But if Steiner was right,” I practically whispered, “those Renaissance painters weren’t part of it. They did reveal the secret.”
“Some did, Javier. Only some.”
“Like Raphael,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied. “Are you familiar with The Holy Family, also known as The Pearl?”
“Very much.”
“Steiner noted that all of Raphael’s important paintings except for The Transfiguration were paintings of events that happened before John the Baptist’s death. And the reason for this, according to him, is that Raphael was . . . inhabited by the spirit of the Baptist himself.”
“Wait a minute! To believe that, you have to believe in reincarnation.”
“True,” said Romano mildly. “Tell me, are you also familiar with the School of Athens?”
“What—is there a Jesus in that as well?”
“Not one—three.”
“Really?”
“And two Raphaels.”
That really threw me. I already knew about Raphael’s self-portrait concealed among the astrologers, but I had no idea that there was another divino of Urbino in the scene. Why would there be two of him?
Romano went on to explain
“This fresco was inspired by Neoplatonic ideas, as I’m sure you know. Raphael wanted to show his contemporaries that science, the ideas of Plato, and the teachings of Christianity could all exist in harmony. So on the right-hand side of the mural he painted the Christian ideas, and on the left-hand side he painted the pagan ones.”
“Where is Jesus?” I asked.
“Well, as I said, he appears three times. One—as the intelligent child described in the Book of Matthew, perched on an unfinished column and reading. Two—as the twelve-year-old who was transformed in the temple. This one is on the other side of the same column. And three—as the adult Christ, dressed all in white and standing next to John the Baptist. John is showing him a book but he is not paying attention to it.”
I was scribbling all this down as fast as I could so that later I could verify everything in the library. When I was done, I resumed my interrogation.
&nb
sp; “What about Raphael?”
Raphael, The School of Athens (detail). From left to right: the Christ Child; Raphael as a child; Perugino; Jesus at twelve years old; and, in front, standing and looking at us, Christ.
“Right between Jesus One and Two. He has his hand on the shoulder of a boy dressed in blue who is also reading from the book on the column. Raphael painted this boy with the face of his first mentor Perugino. By placing himself in that spot, Raphael is telling us that he has known about the secret ever since he began to work in Perugino’s studio.”6
“Interesting,” I muttered feebly.
“Not interesting, Javier—” Lucia corrected me sharply, “affascinante!”
* * *
I. Literally, “the one from Bourgogne, or Burgundy.”
II. The fact that Luini tended to make his Madonnas cross-eyed is all the more notable because of the significance given to that characteristic in the sixteenth century. Vladimir Nabokov, in his 1924 story, “The Venetian,” coined the term “Luini-esque eyes” to describe this look.
6
* * *
LITTLE GHOSTS
“You were with Lucia Bosè and you didn’t call me?”
Marina’s green eyes gave off angry sparks. We’d met in one of our favorite cafés in Moncloa to see each other one last time before vacation. She was leaving the next day for Pamplona, and I was off to Castellón. Back then in 1990, though it wasn’t so long ago, communication was more complicated. Cell phones were a new luxury, and long-distance calls around Spain still cost a fortune. It was better to meet and tell each other everything in person.
The Master of the Prado Page 8