The Girl From the Marsh Croft Part 19

Then Abbot Hans marked how all grew still; the birds hushed their songs, the flowers ceased growing, and the young foxes played no more. The glory now nearing was such that the heart wanted to stop beating; the eyes wept without one's knowing it; the soul longed to soar away into the Eternal. From far in the distance faint harp tones were heard, and celestial song, like a soft murmur, reached him.

Abbot Hans clasped his hands and dropped to his knees. His face was radiant with bliss. Never had he dreamed that even in this life it should be granted him to taste the joys of heaven, and to hear angels sing Christmas carols!

But beside Abbot Hans stood the lay brother who had accompanied him. In his mind there were dark thoughts. "This cannot be a true miracle," he thought, "since it is revealed to malefactors. This does not come from G.o.d, but has its origin in witchcraft and is sent hither by Satan. It is the Evil One's power that is tempting us and compelling us to see that which has no real existence."

From afar were heard the sound of angel harps and the tones of a Miserere. But the lay brother thought it was the evil spirits of h.e.l.l coming closer. "They would enchant and seduce us," sighed he, "and we shall be sold into perdition."

The angel throng was so near now that Abbot Hans saw their bright forms through the forest branches. The lay brother saw them, too; but back of all this wondrous beauty he saw only some dread evil. For him it was the devil who performed these wonders on the anniversary of our Saviour's birth. It was done simply for the purpose of more effectually deluding poor human beings.

All the while the birds had been circling around the head of Abbot Hans, and they let him take them in his hands. But all the animals were afraid of the lay brother; no bird perched on his shoulder, no snake played at his feet. Then there came a little forest dove. When she marked that the angels were nearing, she plucked up courage and flew down on the lay brother's shoulder and laid her head against his cheek.

Then it appeared to him as if sorcery were come right upon him, to tempt and corrupt him. He struck with his hand at the forest dove and cried in such a loud voice that it rang throughout the forest, "Go thou back to h.e.l.l, whence thou art come!"

Just then the angels were so near that Abbot Hans felt the feathery touch of their great wings, and he bowed down to earth in reverent greeting.

But when the lay brother's words sounded, their song was hushed and the holy guests turned in flight. At the same time the light and the mild warmth vanished in unspeakable terror for the darkness and cold in a human heart. Darkness sank over the earth, like a coverlet; frost came, all the growths shrivelled up; the animals and birds hastened away; the rushing of streams was hushed; the leaves dropped from the trees, rustling like rain.

Abbot Hans felt how his heart, which had but lately swelled with bliss, was now contracting with insufferable agony. "I can never outlive this,"

thought he, "that the angels from heaven had been so close to me and were driven away; that they wanted to sing Christmas carols for me and were driven to flight."

Then he remembered the flower he had promised Bishop Absalon, and at the last moment he fumbled among the leaves and moss to try and find a blossom. But he sensed how the ground under his fingers froze and how the white snow came gliding over the ground. Then his heart caused him even greater anguish. He could not rise, but fell prostrate on the ground and lay there.

When the robber folk and the lay brother had groped their way back to the cave, they missed Abbot Hans. They took brands with them and went out to search for him. They found him dead upon the coverlet of snow.

Then the lay brother began weeping and lamenting, for he understood that it was he who had killed Abbot Hans because he had dashed from him the cup of happiness which he had been thirsting to drain to its last drop.

When Abbot Hans had been carried down to ovid, those who took charge of the dead saw that he held his right hand locked tight around something which he must have grasped at the moment of death. When they finally got his hand open, they found that the thing which he had held in such an iron grip was a pair of white root bulbs, which he had torn from among the moss and leaves.

When the lay brother who had accompanied Abbot Hans saw the bulbs, he took them and planted them in Abbot Hans' herb garden.

He guarded them the whole year to see if any flower would spring from them. But in vain he waited through the spring, the summer, and the autumn. Finally, when winter had set in and all the leaves and the flowers were dead, he ceased caring for them.

But when Christmas Eve came again, he was so strongly reminded of Abbot Hans that he wandered out into the garden to think of him. And look! as he came to the spot where he had planted the bare root bulbs, he saw that from them had sprung flourishing green stalks, which bore beautiful flowers with silver white leaves.

He called out all the monks at ovid, and when they saw that this plant bloomed on Christmas Eve, when all the other growths were as if dead, they understood that this flower had in truth been plucked by Abbot Hans from the Christmas garden in Goinge forest. Then the lay brother asked the monks if he might take a few blossoms to Bishop Absalon.

And when he appeared before Bishop Absalon, he gave him the flowers and said: "Abbot Hans sends you these. They are the flowers he promised to pick for you from the garden in Goinge forest."

When Bishop Absalon beheld the flowers, which had sprung from the earth in darkest winter, and heard the words, he turned as pale as if he had met a ghost. He sat in silence a moment; thereupon he said, "Abbot Hans has faithfully kept his word and I shall also keep mine." And he ordered that a letter of ransom be drawn up for the wild robber who was outlawed and had been forced to live in the forest ever since his youth.

He handed the letter to the lay brother, who departed at once for the Robbers' Cave. When he stepped in there on Christmas Day, the robber came toward him with axe uplifted. "I'd like to hack you monks into bits, as many as you are!" said he. "It must be your fault that Goinge forest did not last night dress itself in Christmas bloom."

"The fault is mine alone," said the lay brother, "and I will gladly die for it; but first I must deliver a message from Abbot Hans." And he drew forth the Bishop's letter and told the man that he was free. "Hereafter you and your children shall play in the Christmas straw and celebrate your Christmas among people, just as Abbot Hans wished to have it," said he.

Then Robber Father stood there pale and speechless, but Robber Mother said in his name, "Abbot Hans has indeed kept his word, and Robber Father will keep his."

When the robber and his wife left the cave, the lay brother moved in and lived all alone in the forest, in constant meditation and prayer that his hard-heartedness might be forgiven him.

But Goinge forest never again celebrated the hour of our Saviour's birth; and of all its glory, there lives to-day only the plant which Abbot Hans had plucked. It has been named CHRISTMAS ROSE. And each year at Christmastide she sends forth from the earth her green stalks and white blossoms, as if she never could forget that she had once grown in the great Christmas garden at Goinge forest.

A Story from Jerusalem

In the old and time-honored mosque, El Aksa, in Jerusalem, there is a long, winding path leading from the main entrance up to a very deep and wide window-niche. In this niche a very old and much worn rug is spread; and upon this rug, day in and day out, sits old Mesullam, who is a fortune-teller and dream-interpreter, and who for a paltry penny serves the visitors to the mosque by prying into their future destinies.

It happened one afternoon, several years ago, that Mesullam, who sat as usual in his window, was so ill-natured that he wouldn't even return the greetings of the pa.s.sers-by. No one thought, however, of feeling offended at his rudeness, because every one knew that he was grieving over a humiliation which had been put upon him that day.

At that time a mighty monarch from the Occident was visiting Jerusalem, and in the forenoon the distinguished stranger with his retinue had wandered through El Aksa. Before his arrival the superintendent of the mosque had commanded the servants to scour and dust all the nooks and corners of the old building, at the same time giving orders that Mesullam should move out of his accustomed place. He had found that it would be simply impossible to let him remain there during the visit of the distinguished guest. It was not only that his rug was very ragged, or that he had piled up around him a lot of dirty sacks in which he kept his belongings, but Mesullam himself was anything but an ornament to the mosque! He was, in reality, an inconceivably ugly old negro. His lips were enormous, his chin protruded aggressively, his brow was exceedingly low, and his nose was almost like a snout; and in addition to these, Mesullam had a coa.r.s.e and wrinkled skin and a clumsy, thick-set body, which was carelessly draped in a dirty white shawl. So one can't wonder that he was forbidden to show himself in the mosque while the honored guest was there!

Poor Mesullam, who knew well enough that, despite his ugliness, he was a very wise man, experienced a bitter disappointment in that _he_ was not to see the royal traveller. He had hoped that he might give him some proofs of the great accomplishments which he possessed in occult things and in this way add to his own glory and renown. Since this hope had miscarried, he sat hour after hour in a queer position, and mourned, with his long arms stretched upward and his head thrown far back, as though he were calling upon heaven for justice.

When it drew on toward evening, Mesullam was wakened from his state of all-absorbing grief by a cheery voice calling him. It was a Syrian who, accompanied by another traveller, had come up to the soothsayer. He told him that the stranger whom he was conducting wished for a proof of Oriental wisdom, and that he had spoken to him of Mesullam's ability to interpret dreams.

Mesullam answered not a word to this, but maintained his former att.i.tude rigidly. When the guide asked him again if he would not listen to the dreams the stranger wished to relate to him and interpret them, his arms dropped and he crossed them on his breast. a.s.suming the att.i.tude of a wronged man, he answered that this evening his soul was so filled with his own troubles that he couldn't judge anything clearly which concerned another.

But the stranger, who had a buoyant and commanding personality, didn't seem to mind his objections. As there was no chair handy, he kicked aside the rug and seated himself in the window-niche. Then he began, in a clear and vibrant voice, to narrate a few dreams, which later were translated for the soothsayer by the guide.

"Tell him," said the traveller, "that a few years ago I was at Cairo, in Egypt. Since he is a learned man, naturally he knows there is a mosque there, called El Azhar, which is the most celebrated inst.i.tution of learning in the Orient. I went there one day to visit it, and found that the whole colossal structure--all its rooms and arcades, all its entrances and halls were filled with students. There were old men who had devoted their entire lives to the quest for knowledge, and children who were just learning to form their letters. There were giantesque negroes from the heart of Africa; lithe, handsome youths from India and Arabia; far-travelled strangers from Barbary, from Georgia, from every land where the natives embrace the doctrines of the Koran. Close to the pillars--I was told that in El Azhar there were as many teachers as there were pillars--the instructors were squatted on their rugs, while their students, who were arranged in a circle around them, eagerly followed their lectures, which were accompanied by swaying movements of their bodies. And tell him that, although El Azhar is in no way comparable to the great Occidental seats of learning, I was nevertheless astonished at what I saw there. I remarked to myself: 'Ah, this is Islam's great stronghold and defence! From here Mohammed's young champions go out. Here, at El Azhar, the potions of wisdom that keep the Koran's doctrines healthy and vigorous are blended.'"

All of this the traveller said almost in one breath. Now he made a pause, so that the guide would have an opportunity to interpret for the soothsayer. Then he continued:

"Now tell him that El Azhar made such a powerful impression upon me that on the following night I saw it again in a dream. I saw the white marble structure and the many students dressed in white mantles and white turbans--as is the custom at El Azhar. I wandered through halls and courts and was again astonished at what a splendid fortress and wall of protection this was for Mohammedanism. Finally--in the dream--I came to the minaret upon which the prayer-crier stands to inform the faithful that the hour of prayer has struck. And I saw the stairway which winds up to the minaret, and I saw a prayer-crier walking up the steps. He wore a black mantle and a white turban, like the others, and as he went up the stairs I could not at first see his face, but when he had made a few turns on the spiral stairway, he happened to turn his face toward me, and then I saw that it was _Christ_."

The speaker made a short pause, and his chest was expanded for a deep inhalation. "I shall never forget, although it was only a dream," he exclaimed, "what an impression it made upon me to see Christ walking up the steps to the minaret in El Azhar! To me it seemed so glorious and significant that he had come to this stronghold of Islam to call out the hours of prayer that I leaped up in the dream and awaked."

Here the traveller made another pause to let the guide interpret for the soothsayer. But this appeared to be well-nigh useless labor. Mesullam sat all the while, with his hands on his sides, rocking back and forth, and with his eyes half closed. He seemed to want to say: "Inasmuch as I cannot escape these importunate people, at least I will let them see that I don't care to listen to what they have to say. I'll try and rock myself to sleep. It will be the best way to show them how little I care about them."

The guide intimated to the traveller that all their trouble would be in vain and they wouldn't hear a sensible word from Mesullam while he was in this mood. But the European stranger seemed to be entranced by Mesullam's indescribable ugliness and extraordinary behavior. He looked at him with the pleasure of a child when it is watching a wild animal in a menagerie, and he desired to continue the interview.

"Tell him that I wouldn't have troubled him to interpret this dream," he said, "had it not, in a certain sense, come to me again. Let him know that two weeks ago I visited the Sophia Mosque at Constantinople, and that I, after wandering through this magnificent building, stepped up on a minaret in order to get a better view of the auditorium. Tell him, also, that they allowed me to come into the mosque during a service, when it was filled with people. Upon each of the innumerable prayer rugs which covered the whole floor of the main hall, a man was standing and saying his prayers. All who took part in the service simultaneously made the same movements. All fell upon their knees and threw themselves on their faces and raised themselves, at the same time whispering their prayers very low; but from the almost imperceptible movements of so many lips came a mysterious murmur, which rose toward the high arches and died away, time and again. Then there came melodious responses from remote pa.s.sages and galleries. It was so strange altogether that one wondered if it was not the Spirit of G.o.d that poured into the old sanctuary."

The traveller made another pause. He observed Mesullam carefully, while the guide interpreted his speech. It actually appeared as if he had tried to win the negro's approbation with his eloquence. And it seemed, too, as though he would succeed, for Mesullam's half-closed eyes flashed once, like a coal that is beginning to take fire. But the soothsayer, stubborn as a child that will not let itself be amused, dropped his head on his breast and began an even more impatient rocking of his body.

"Tell him," resumed the stranger, "tell him that I have never seen people pray with such fervor! To me it seemed as if it was the sublime beauty of this marvellous structure which created this atmosphere of ecstasy. Verily this is still an Islam bulwark! This is the home of devoutness! From this great mosque emanate the faith and enthusiasm which make Islam a mighty power."

Here he paused again, noting carefully Mesullam's play of features during its interpretation. Not a trace of interest was discernible in them. But the stranger was evidently a man who liked to hear himself talk. His own words intoxicated him; he would have become ill-natured had he not been allowed to proceed.

"Well," said he, when it was his turn again to speak, "I cannot rightly explain what happened to me. Possibly the faint odor from the hundreds of oil lamps, together with the low murmurings of the devotees, lulled me into a kind of stupefaction. I could not help but close my eyes as I stood leaning against a pillar. Soon sleep, or rather insensibility, overcame me. Probably it did not last more than a minute, but during this interval I was entirely removed from reality. While in this trance I could see the whole Sophia Mosque before me, with all the praying people; but now I saw what I had not hitherto observed. Up in the dome were scaffoldings, and on these stood a number of workmen with paint pots and brushes.

"Tell him, if he does not already know it," continued the narrator, "that Sophia Mosque was once a Christian church, and that its arches and dome are covered with sacred Christian mosaics, although the Turks have painted out all these pictures with plain yellow paint. And it appeared to me as if the yellow paint in the dome had peeled off in a couple of places and that the painters had clambered up on the scaffolding to touch up the picture. But, look! when one of them raised his brush to fill in the color, another large piece scaled off, and suddenly one saw from behind it a beautiful painting of the _Christ_ emerge. Again the painter raised his arm to paint out the picture, but the arm, which appeared to be numb and powerless, dropped down before this beautiful face; at the same time the paint dropped from the entire dome and arch, and Christ was visible there in all his glory, among angels and heavenly hosts. Then the painter cried out, and all the worshippers down on the floor of the mosque raised their heads. And when they saw the heavenly hosts surrounding the Saviour, they sent up a cry of joy, and when I witnessed this joy, I was seized with such strong emotion that I waked instantly. Then everything was like itself. The mosaics were hidden under the yellow paint and the devotees continued all the while to invoke Allah."

When the interpreter had translated this, Mesullam opened one eye and regarded the stranger. He saw a man who he thought resembled all other Occidentals that wandered through the mosque. "I don't believe the pale-faced stranger has seen any visions," thought he. "He has not the dark eyes that can see what is behind the veil of mystery. I think, rather, that he came here to make sport of me. I must beware lest on this accursed day I be overtaken by another humiliation."

The stranger spoke anon: "You know, O Dream Interpreter!" turning now direct to Mesullam, as if he thought that he could understand him, despite his foreign tongue--"you know that a distinguished foreigner is visiting Jerusalem at present, and on his account they have talked of opening the walled-up gate in Jerusalem's ring-wall--the one they call 'the Golden' and which is believed to be the gate through which Jesus rode into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. They have actually been thinking of doing the distinguished traveller the honor of letting him ride into the city through a gate which has been walled up for centuries; but they were held back by an old prophecy which foretells that when this gate is opened the Occidentals will march in through it to take possession of Jerusalem.