"Lord of the World" by Robert Hugh Benson - IV (in English)

CHAPTER III

I

                Old Mrs. Brand and Mabel were seated at a window of the new Admiralty Offices in Trafalgar Square to see Oliver deliver his speech on the fiftieth anniversary of the passing of the Poor Laws Reform.

                It was an inspiriting sight, this bright June morning, to see the crowds gathering round Braithwaite's statue. That politician, dead fifteen years before, was represented in his famous attitude, with arms outstretched and down dropped, his head up and one foot slightly advanced, and to-day was decked, as was becoming more and more usual on such occasions, in his Masonic insignia. It was he who had given immense impetus to that secret movement by his declaration in the House that the key of future progress and brotherhood of nations was in the hands of the Order. It was through this alone that the false unity of the Church with its fantastic spiritual fraternity could be counteracted. St. Paul had been right, he declared, in his desire to break down the partition-walls between nations, and wrong only in his exaltation of Jesus Christ. Thus he had preluded his speech on the Poor Law question, pointing to the true charity that existed among Masons apart from religious motive, and appealing to the famous benefactions on the Continent; and in the enthusiasm of the Bill's success the Order had received a great accession of members.

                Old Mrs. Brand was in her best to-day, and looked out with considerable excitement at the huge throng gathered to hear her son speak. A platform was erected round the bronze statue at such a height that the statesman appeared to be one of the speakers, though at a slightly higher elevation, and this platform was hung with roses, surmounted by a sounding-board, and set with a chair and table.

                The whole square round about was paved with heads and resonant with sound, the murmurs of thousands of voices, overpowered now and again by the crash of brass and thunder of drums as the Benefit Societies and democratic Guilds, each headed by a banner, deployed from North, South, East and West, and converged towards the wide railed space about the platform where room was reserved for them. The windows on every side were packed with faces; tall stands were erected along the front of the National Gallery and St. Martin's Church, garden-beds of colour behind the mute, white statues that faced outwards round the square; from Braithwaite in front, past the Victorians - John Davidson, John Burns, and the rest - round to Hampden and de Montfort towards the north. The old column was gone, with its lions. Nelson had not been found advantageous to the Entente Cordiale, nor the lions to the new art; and in their place stretched a wide pavement broken by slopes of steps that led up to the National Gallery.

                Overhead the roofs showed crowded friezes of heads against the blue summer sky. Not less than one hundred thousand persons, it was estimated in the evening papers, were collected within sight and sound of the platform by noon.

                As the clocks began to tell the hour, two figures appeared from behind the statue and came forward, and, in an instant, the murmurs of talk rose into cheering.

                Old Lord Pemberton came first, a grey-haired, upright man, whose father had been active in denouncing the House of which he was a member on the occasion of its fall over seventy years ago, and his son had succeeded him worthily. This man was now a member of the Government, and sat for Manchester; and it was he who was to be chairman on this auspicious occasion. Behind him came Oliver, bareheaded and spruce, and even at that distance his mother and wife could see his brisk movement, his sudden smile and nod as his name emerged from the storm of sound that surged round the platform. Lord Pemberton came forward, lifted his hand and made a signal; and in a moment the thin cheering died under the sudden roll of drums beneath that preluded the Masonic Hymn.

                There was no doubt that these Londoners could sing. It was as if a giant voice hummed the sonorous melody, rising to enthusiasm till the music of massed bands followed it as a flag follows a flag-stick. The hymn was one composed ten years before, and all England was familiar with it. Old Mrs. Bland lifted the printed paper mechanically to her eyes, and saw the words that she knew so well:

"The Lord that dwells in earth and sea."…

                She glanced down the verses, that from the Humanitarian point of view had been composed with both skill and ardour. They had a religious ring; the unintelligent Christian could sing them without a qualm; yet their sense was plain enough - the old human creed that man was all. Even Christ's, words themselves were quoted. The kingdom of God, it was said, lay within the human heart, and the greatest of all graces was Charity.

                She glanced at Mabel, and saw that the girl was singing with all her might, with her eyes fixed on her husband's dark figure a hundred yards away, and her soul pouring through them. So the mother, too, began to move her lips in chorus with that vast volume of sound.

                As the hymn died away, and before the cheering could begin again, old Lord Pemberton was standing forward on the edge of the platform, and his thin, metallic voice piped a sentence or two across the tinkling splash of the fountains behind him. Then he stepped back, and Oliver came forward.

* * * * *

It was too far for the two to hear what was said, but Mabel slipped a paper, smiling tremulously, into the old lady's hand, and herself bent forward to listen.

                Old Mrs. Brand looked at that, too, knowing that it was an analysis of her son's speech, and aware that she would not be able to hear his words.

                There was an exordium first, congratulating all who were present to do honour to the great man who presided from his pedestal on the occasion of this great anniversary. Then there came a retrospect, comparing the old state of England with the present. Fifty years ago, the speaker said, poverty was still a disgrace, now it was so no longer. It was in the causes that led to poverty that the disgrace or the merit lay. Who would not honour a man worn out in the service of his country, or overcome at last by circumstances against which his efforts could not prevail?… He enumerated the reforms passed fifty years before on this very day, by which the nation once and for all declared the glory of poverty and man's sympathy with the unfortunate.

                So he had told them he was to sing the praise of patient poverty and its reward, and that, he supposed, together with a few periods on the reform of the prison laws, would form the first half of his speech.

                The second part was to be a panegyric of Braithwaite, treating him as the Precursor of a movement that even now had begun.

                Old Mrs. Brand leaned back in her seat, and looked about her.

                The window where they sat had been reserved for them; two arm-chairs filled the space, but immediately behind there were others, standing very silent now, craning forward, watching, too, with parted lips: a couple of women with an old man directly behind, and other faces visible again behind them. Their obvious absorption made the old lady a little ashamed of her distraction, and she turned resolutely once more to the square.

                Ah! he was working up now to his panegyric! The tiny dark figure was back, a yard nearer the statue, and as she looked, his hand went up and he wheeled, pointing, as a murmur of applause drowned for an instant the minute, resonant voice. Then again he was forward, half crouching - for he was a born actor - and a storm of laughter rippled round the throng of heads. She heard an indrawn hiss behind her chair, and the next instant an exclamation from Mabel... What was that?

                There was a sharp crack, and the tiny gesticulating figure staggered back a step. The old man at the table was up in a moment, and simultaneously a violent commotion bubbled and heaved like water about a rock at a point in the crowd immediately outside the railed space where the bands were massed, and directly opposite the front of the platform.

                Mrs. Brand, bewildered and dazed, found herself standing up, clutching the window rail, while the girl gripped her, crying out something she could not understand. A great roaring filled the square, the heads tossed this way and that, like corn under a squall of wind. Then Oliver was forward again, pointing and crying out, for she could see his gestures; and she sank back quickly, the blood racing through her old veins, and her heart hammering at the base of her throat.

                "My dear, my dear, what is it?" she sobbed.

                But Mabel was up, too, staring out at her husband; and a quick babble of talk and exclamations from behind made itself audible in spite of the roaring tumult of the square.

II

                Oliver told them the explanation of the whole affair that evening at home, leaning back in his chair, with one arm bandaged and in a sling.

                They had not been able to get near him at the time; the excitement in the square had been too fierce; but a messenger had come to his wife with the news that her husband was only slightly wounded, and was in the hands of the doctors.

                "He was a Catholic," explained the drawn-faced Oliver. "He must have come ready, for his repeater was found loaded. Well, there was no chance for a priest this time."

                Mabel nodded slowly: she had read of the man's fate on the placards.

                "He was killed - trampled and strangled instantly," said Oliver. "I did what I could: you saw me. But - well, I dare say it was more merciful."

                "But you did what you could, my dear?" said the old lady, anxiously, from her corner.

                "I called out to them, mother, but they wouldn't hear me."

                Mabel leaned forward -

                "Oliver, I know this sounds stupid of me; but - but I wish they had not killed him."

                Oliver smiled at her. He knew this tender trait in her.

                "It would have been more perfect if they had not," she said. Then she broke off and sat back.

                "Why did he shoot just then?" she asked.

                Oliver turned his eyes for an instant towards his mother, but she was knitting tranquilly.

                Then he answered with a curious deliberateness.

                "I said that Braithwaite had done more for the world by one speech than Jesus and all His saints put together." He was aware that the knitting-needles stopped for a second; then they went on again as before.

                "But he must have meant to do it anyhow," continued Oliver.

                "How do they know he was a Catholic?" asked the girl again.

                "There was a rosary on him; and then he just had time to call on his God."

                "And nothing more is known?"

                "Nothing more. He was well dressed, though."

                Oliver leaned back a little wearily and closed his eyes; his arm still throbbed intolerably. But he was very happy at heart. It was true that he had been wounded by a fanatic, but he was not sorry to bear pain in such a cause, and it was obvious that the sympathy of England was with him. Mr. Phillips even now was busy in the next room, answering the telegrams that poured in every moment. Caldecott, the Prime Minister, Maxwell, Snowford and a dozen others had wired instantly their congratulations, and from every part of England streamed in message after message. It was an immense stroke for the Communists; their spokesman had been assaulted during the discharge of his duty, speaking in defence of his principles; it was an incalculable gain for them, and loss for the Individualists, that confessors were not all on one side after all. The huge electric placards over London had winked out the facts in Esperanto as Oliver stepped into the train at twilight.

                "Oliver Brand wounded... Catholic assailant... Indignation of the country... Well-deserved fate of assassin."

                He was pleased, too, that he honestly had done his best to save the man. Even in that moment of sudden and acute pain he had cried out for a fair trial; but he had been too late. He had seen the starting eyes roll up in the crimson face, and the horrid grin come and go as the hands had clutched and torn at his throat. Then the face had vanished and a heavy trampling began where it had disappeared. Oh! there was some passion and loyalty left in England!

                His mother got up presently and went out, still without a word; and Mabel turned to him, laying a hand on his knee.

                "Are you too tired to talk, my dear?"

                He opened his eyes.

                "Of course not, my darling. What is it?"

                "What do you think will be the effect?"

                He raised himself a little, looking out as usual through the darkening windows on to that astonishing view. Everywhere now lights were glowing, a sea of mellow moons just above the houses, and above the mysterious heavy blue of a summer evening.

                "The effect?" he said. "It can be nothing but good. It was time that something happened. My dear, I feel very downcast sometimes, as you know. Well, I do not think I shall be again. I have been afraid sometimes that we were losing all our spirit, and that the old Tories were partly right when they prophesied what Communism would do. But after this -"

                "Well?"

                "Well; we have shown that we can shed our blood too. It is in the nick of time, too, just at the crisis. I don't want to exaggerate; it is only a scratch - but it was so deliberate, and - and so dramatic. The poor devil could not have chosen a worse moment. People won't forget it."

                Mabel's eyes shone with pleasure.

                "You poor dear!" she said. "Are you in pain?"

                "Not much. Besides, Christ! what do I care? If only this infernal Eastern affair would end!"

                He knew he was feverish and irritable, and made a great effort to drive it down.

                "Oh, my dear!" he went on, flushed a little. "If they would not be such heavy fools: they don't understand; they don't understand."

                "Yes, Oliver?"

                "They don't understand what a glorious thing it all is Humanity, Life, Truth at last, and the death of Folly! But haven't I told them a hundred times?"

                She looked at him with kindling eyes. She loved to see him like this, his confident, flushed face, the enthusiasm in his blue eyes; and the knowledge of his pain pricked her feeling with passion. She bent forward and kissed him suddenly.

                "My dear, I am so proud of you. Oh, Oliver!"

                He said nothing; but she could see what she loved to see, that response to her own heart; and so they sat in silence while the sky darkened yet more, and the click of the writer in the next room told them that the world was alive and that they had a share in its affairs.

                Oliver stirred presently.

                "Did you notice anything just now, sweetheart - when I said that about Jesus Christ?"

                "She stopped knitting for a moment," said the girl.

                He nodded.

                "You saw that too, then… Mabel, do you think she is falling back?"

                "Oh! she is getting old," said the girl lightly. "Of course she looks back a little."

                "But you don't think - it would be too awful!"

                She shook her head.

                "No, no, my dear; you're excited and tired. It's just a little sentiment... Oliver, I don't think I would say that kind of thing before her."

                "But she hears it everywhere now."

                "No, she doesn't. Remember she hardly ever goes out. Besides, she hates it. After all, she was brought up a Catholic."

                Oliver nodded, and lay back again, looking dreamily out.

                "Isn't it astonishing the way in which suggestion lasts? She can't get it out of her head, even after fifty years. Well, watch her, won't you?… By the way…"

                "Yes?"

                "There's a little more news from the East. They say Felsenburgh's running the whole thing now. The Empire is sending him everywhere - Tobolsk, Benares, Yakutsk - everywhere; and he's been to Australia."

                Mabel sat up briskly.

                "Isn't that very hopeful?"

                "I suppose so. There's no doubt that the Sufis are winning; but for how long is another question. Besides, the troops don't disperse."

                "And Europe?"

                "Europe is arming as fast as possible. I hear we are to meet the Powers next week at Paris. I must go."

                "Your arm, my dear?"

                "My arm must get well. It will have to go with me, anyhow."

                "Tell me some more."

                "There is no more. But it is just as certain as it can be that this is the crisis. If the East can be persuaded to hold its hand now, it will never be likely to raise it again. It will mean free trade all over the world, I suppose, and all that kind of thing. But if not -"

                "Well?"

                "If not, there will be a catastrophe such as never has been even imagined. The whole human race will be at war, and either East or West will be simply wiped out. These new Benninschein explosives will make certain of that."

                "But is it absolutely certain that the East has got them?"

                "Absolutely. Benninschein sold them simultaneously to East and West; then he died, luckily for him."

                Mabel had heard this kind of talk before, but her imagination simply refused to grasp it. A duel of East and West under these new conditions was an unthinkable thing. There had been no European war within living memory, and the Eastern wars of the last century had been under the old conditions. Now, if tales were true, entire towns would be destroyed with a single shell. The new conditions were unimaginable. Military experts prophesied extravagantly, contradicting one another on vital points; the whole procedure of war was a matter of theory; there were no precedents with which to compare it. It was as if archers disputed as to the results of cordite. Only one thing was certain - that the East had every modern engine, and, as regards male population, half as much again as the rest of the world put together; and the conclusion to be drawn from these premisses was not reassuring to England.

                But imagination simply refused to speak. The daily papers had a short, careful leading article every day, founded upon the scraps of news that stole out from the conferences on the other side of the world; Felsenburgh's name appeared more frequently than ever: otherwise there seemed to be a kind of hush. Nothing suffered very much; trade went on; European stocks were not appreciably lower than usual; men still built houses, married wives, begat sons and daughters, did their business and went to the theatre, for the mere reason that there was no good in anything else. They could neither save nor precipitate the situation; it was on too large a scale. Occasionally people went mad - people who had succeeded in goading their imagination to a height whence a glimpse of reality could be obtained; and there was a diffused atmosphere of tenseness. But that was all. Not many speeches were made on the subject; it had been found inadvisable. After all, there was nothing to do but to wait.

III

                Mabel remembered her husband's advice to watch, and for a few days did her best. But there was nothing that alarmed her. The old lady was a little quiet, perhaps, but went about her minute affairs as usual. She asked the girl to read to her sometimes, and listened unblenching to whatever was offered her; she attended in the kitchen daily, organised varieties of food, and appeared interested in all that concerned her son. She packed his bag with her own hands, set out his furs for the swift flight to Paris, and waved to him from the window as he went down the little path towards the junction. He would be gone three days, he said.

                It was on the evening of the second day that she fell ill; and Mabel, running upstairs, in alarm at the message of the servant, found her rather flushed and agitated in her chair.

                "It is nothing, my dear," said the old lady tremulously; and she added the description of a symptom or two.

                Mabel got her to bed, sent for the doctor, and sat down to wait.

                She was sincerely fond of the old lady, and had always found her presence in the house a quiet sort of delight. The effect of her upon the mind was as that of an easy-chair upon the body. The old lady was so tranquil and human, so absorbed in small external matters, so reminiscent now and then of the days of her youth, so utterly without resentment or peevishness. It seemed curiously pathetic to the girl to watch that quiet old spirit approach its extinction, or rather, as Mabel believed, its loss of personality in the reabsorption into the Spirit of Life which informed the world. She found less difficulty in contemplating the end of a vigorous soul, for in that case she imagined a kind of energetic rush of force back into the origin of things; but in this peaceful old lady there was so little energy; her whole point, so to speak, lay in the delicate little fabric of personality, built out of fragile things into an entity far more significant than the sum of its component parts: the death of a flower, reflected Mabel, is sadder than the death of a lion; the breaking of a piece of china more irreparable than the ruin of a palace.

                "It is syncope," said the doctor when he came in. "She may die at any time; she may live ten years."

                "There is no need to telegraph for Mr. Brand?"

                He made a little deprecating movement with his hands.

                "It is not certain that she will die - it is not imminent?" she asked.

                "No, no; she may live ten years, I said."

                He added a word or two of advice as to the use of the oxygen injector, and went away.

* * * * *

The old lady was lying quietly in bed, when the girl went up, and put out a wrinkled hand.

                "Well, my dear?" she asked.

                "It is just a little weakness, mother. You must lie quiet and do nothing. Shall I read to you?"

                "No, my dear; I will think a little."

                It was no part of Mabel's idea to duty to tell her that she was in danger, for there was no past to set straight, no Judge to be confronted. Death was an ending, not a beginning. It was a peaceful Gospel; at least, it became peaceful as soon as the end had come.

                So the girl went downstairs once more, with a quiet little ache at her heart that refused to be still.

                What a strange and beautiful thing death was, she told herself - this resolution of a chord that had hung suspended for thirty, fifty or seventy years - back again into the stillness of the huge Instrument that was all in all to itself. Those same notes would be struck again, were being struck again even now all over the world, though with an infinite delicacy of difference in the touch; but that particular emotion was gone: it was foolish to think that it was sounding eternally elsewhere, for there was no elsewhere. She, too, herself would cease one day, let her see to it that the tone was pure and lovely.

* * * * *

Mr. Phillips arrived the next morning as usual, just as Mabel had left the old lady's room, and asked news of her.

                "She is a little better, I think," said Mabel. "She must be very quiet all day."

                The secretary bowed and turned aside into Oliver's room, where a heap of letters lay to be answered.

                A couple of hours later, as Mabel went upstairs once more, she met Mr. Phillips coming down. He looked a little flushed under his sallow skin.

                "Mrs. Brand sent for me," he said. "She wished to know whether Mr. Oliver would be back to-night."

                "He will, will he not? You have not heard?"

                "Mr. Brand said he would be here for a late dinner. He will reach London at nineteen."

                "And is there any other news?"

                He compressed his lips.

                "There are rumours," he said. "Mr. Brand wired to me an hour ago."

                He seemed moved at something, and Mabel looked at him in astonishment.

                "It is not Eastern news?" she asked.

                His eyebrows wrinkled a little.

                "You must forgive me, Mrs. Brand," he said. "I am not at liberty to say anything."

                She was not offended, for she trusted her husband too well; but she went on into the sick-room with her heart beating.

                The old lady, too, seemed excited. She lay in bed with a clear flush in her white cheeks, and hardly smiled at all to the girl's greeting.

                "Well, you have seen Mr. Phillips, then?" said Mabel.

                Old Mrs. Brand looked at her sharply an instant, but said nothing.

                "Don't excite yourself, mother. Oliver will be back to-night."

                The old lady drew a long breath.

                "Don't trouble about me, my dear," she said. "I shall do very well now. He will be back to dinner, will he not?"

                "If the volor is not late. Now, mother, are you ready for breakfast?"

* * * * *

Mabel passed an afternoon of considerable agitation. It was certain that something had happened. The secretary, who breakfasted with her in the parlour looking on to the garden, had appeared strangely excited. He had told her that he would be away the rest of the day: Mr. Oliver had given him his instructions. He had refrained from all discussion of the Eastern question, and he had given her no news of the Paris Convention; he only repeated that Mr. Oliver would be back that night. Then he had gone of in a hurry half-an-hour later.

                The old lady seemed asleep when the girl went up afterwards, and Mabel did not like to disturb her. Neither did she like to leave the house; so she walked by herself in the garden, thinking and hoping and fearing, till the long shadow lay across the path, and the tumbled platform of roofs was bathed in a dusty green haze from the west.

                As she came in she took up the evening paper, but there was no news there except to the effect that the Convention would close that afternoon.

* * * * *

Twenty o'clock came, but there was no sign of Oliver. The Paris volor should have arrived an hour before, but Mabel, staring out into the darkening heavens had seen the stars come out like jewels one by one, but no slender winged fish pass overhead. Of course she might have missed it; there was no depending on its exact course; but she had seen it a hundred times before, and wondered unreasonably why she had not seen it now. But she would not sit down to dinner, and paced up and down in her white dress, turning again and again to the window, listening to the soft rush of the trains, the faint hoots from the track, and the musical chords from the junction a mile away. The lights were up by now, and the vast sweep of the towns looked like fairyland between the earthly light and the heavenly darkness. Why did not Oliver come, or at least let her know why he did not?

                Once she went upstairs, miserably anxious herself, to reassure the old lady, and found her again very drowsy.

                "He is not come," she said. "I dare say he may be kept in Paris."

                The old face on the pillow nodded and murmured, and Mabel went down again. It was now an hour after dinner-time.

                Oh! there were a hundred things that might have kept him. He had often been later than this: he might have missed the volor he meant to catch; the Convention might have been prolonged; he might be exhausted, and think it better to sleep in Paris after all, and have forgotten to wire. He might even have wired to Mr. Phillips, and the secretary have forgotten to pass on the message.

                She went at last, hopelessly, to the telephone, and looked at it. There it was, that round silent month, that little row of labelled buttons. She half decided to touch them one by one, and inquire whether anything had been heard of her husband: there was his club, his office in Whitehall, Mr. Phillips's house, Parliament-house, and the rest. But she hesitated, telling herself to be patient. Oliver hated interference, and he would surely soon remember and relieve her anxiety.

                Then, even as she turned away, the bell rang sharply, and a white label flashed into sight. -WHITEHALL.

                She pressed the corresponding button, and, her hand shaking so much that she could scarcely hold the receiver to her ear, she listened.

                "Who is there?"

                Her heart leaped at the sound of her husband's voice, tiny and minute across the miles of wire.

                "I - Mabel," she said. "Alone here."

                "Oh! Mabel. Very well. I am back: all is well. Now listen. Can you hear?"

                "Yes, yes."

                "The best has happened. It is all over in the East. Felsenburgh has done it. Now listen. I cannot come home to-night. It will be announced in Paul's House in two hours from now. We are communicating with the Press. Come up here to me at once. You must be present... Can you hear?"

                "Oh, yes."

                "Come then at once. It will be the greatest thing in history. Tell no one. Come before the rush begins. In half-an-hour the way will be stopped."

                "Oliver."

                "Yes? Quick."

                "Mother is ill. Shall I leave her?"

                "How ill?"

                "Oh, no immediate danger. The doctor has seen her."

                There was silence for a moment.

                "Yes; come then. We will go back to-night anyhow, then. Tell her we shall be late."

                "Very well."

                "…Yes, you must come. Felsenburgh will be there."

Untitled Story by Unknown Writer (in English)

 art by unknown artist - Snap Comics #9 - Chesler / Dynamic, 1944..

Letter from the Dagobert of Pisa, Godfrey of Bouillon, and Raymond IV to Pope Paschal II (translated into English)

To lord Paschal, pope of the Roman church, to all the bishops, and to the whole Christian people, from the archbishop of Pisa, duke Godfrey, now, by the grace of God, defender of the church of the Holy Sepuchre, Raymond, count of St. Gilles, and the whole army of God, which is in the land of Israel, greeting.

            Multiply your supplications and prayers in the sight of God with joy and thanksgiving, since God has manifested His mercy in fulfiling by our hands what He had promised in ancient times. For after the capture of Nicaea, the whole army, made up of more than three hundred thousand soldiers, departed thence. And, although this army was great that it could have in a single day covered all Romania, and drunk up all the rivers and eaten up all the growing things, yet the Lord conducted them amid so great abundance that a ram was sold for a penny and an ox for twelve pennies or less. Moreover, although the princes and kings of the Saracens rose up against us, yet, by God's will, they were easily conquered and overcome. Because, indeed, some were puffed up by these successes, God opposed to us Antioch, impregnable to human strength. And there He detained us for nine months and so humbled us in the siege that there were scarcely a hundred good horses in our whole army. God opened to us the abundance of His blessing and mercy and led us into the city, and delivered the Turks and all of their possessions into our power.

            In as much as we thought that these had been acquired by our own strength and aid not worthily magnify God who had done this, we were beset by so great a multitude of Turks that no one dared to venture forth at any point from the city. Moreover, hunger so weakened us that some could scarcely refrain from eating human flesh. It would be tedious to narrate all the miseries which we suffered in that city. But God looked down upon His people whom He had so long chastised and mercifully consoled them. Therefore, He at first revealed to us, as a recompense for our tribulation and as a pledge of victory, His lance which had lain hidden since the days of the apostles. Next, He so fortified the hearts of the men, that they who from sickness or hunger had been unable to walk, now were endued with strength to seize their weapons and manfully to fight against the enemy.

            After we had triumphed over the enemy, as our army was wasting away at Antioch from sickness and weariness and was especially hindered by the dissensions among the leaders, we proceeded into Syria, stormed Barra and Marra, cities of the Saracens, and captured the fortresses in that country. And while we were delaying there, there was so great a famine in the army that the Christian people now ate the putrid bodies of the Saracens. Finally, by the divine admonition, we entered into the interior of Hispania, [1] and the most bountiful, merciful and victorious hand of the omnipotent Father was with us. For the cities and fortresses of the country through which we were proceeding sent ambassadors to us with many gifts and offered to aid us and to surrender their walled places. But because our army was not large and it was the unanimous wish to hasten to Jerusalem, we accepted their pledges and made them tributaries. One of the cities forsooth, which was on the sea-coast, had more men than there were in our whole army. And when those at Antioch and Laodicea and Archas heard how the hand of the Lord was with us, many from the army who had remained in those cities followed us to Tyre. Therefore, with the Lord's companionship and aid, we proceeded thus as far as Jerusalem.

            And after the army had suffered greatly in the siege, especially on account of the lack of water, a council was held and the bishops and princes ordered that all with bare feet should march around the walls of the city, in order that He who entered it humbly in our behalf might be moved by our humility to open it to us and to exercise judgment upon His enemies. God was appeased by this humility and on the eighth day after the humiliation, He delivered the city and His enemies to us. It was the day indeed on which the primitive church was driven thence and on which the festival of the dispersion of the apostles is celebrated. And if you desire to know what was done with the enemy who were found there, know that in Solomon's Porch and in his temple our men rode in the blood of the Saracens up to the knees of their horses.

            Then, when we were considering who ought to hold the city, and some moved by love for their country and kinsmen wished to return home, it was announced to us that the king of Babylon had come to Ascalon with an innumerable multitude of soldiers. His purpose was as he said, to lead the Franks, who were in Jerusalem, into captivity, and to take Antioch by storm. But God had determined otherwise in regard to us. Therefore, when we learned that the army of the Babylonians was at their weapons, so that if they wished afterwards to attack us, they did not have the weapons in which they trusted. There can be no question how great the spoils were, since the treasures of the king of Babylon were captured. More than 100,000 Moors perished there by the sword. Moreover, their panic was so great that about 2,000 were suffocated at the gate of the city. Those who perished in the sea were innumerable. Many were entangled in the thickets. The whole world was certainly fighting for us, and if many of ours had not been detained in plundering the camp, few of the great multitude of the enemy would have been able to escape from the battle.

            And although it may be tedious, the following must not be omitted: on the day preceding the battle the army captured many thousands of camels, oxen and sheep. By the command of the princes, these were divided among the people. When we advanced to battle, wonderful to relate, the camels formed in many squadrons and the sheep and oxen did the same. Moreover, these animals accompanied us, halting when we halted, advancing when we advanced, and charging when we charged. The clouds protected us from the heat of the sun and cooled us.

            Accordingly, after celebrating the victory, the army returned to Jerusalem. Duke Godfrey remained there; the count of St. Gilles, Robert, count of Normandy, and Robert, count of Flanders, returned to Laodicea. There they found the fleet belonging to the Pisans and to Bohemond. After the archbishop of Pisa had established peace between Bohemond and our leaders, Raymond prepared to return to Jerusalem for the sake of God and his brethren.

            Therefore, we call upon you of the catholic church of Christ and of the whole Latin church to exult in the so admirable bravery and devotion of your brethren, in the so glorious and very desirable retribution of the omnipotent God, and in the so devoutedly hoped-for remission of all our sins through the grace of God. And we pray that He may make you - namely, all bishops, clergy and monks who are leading devout lives, and all the laity - to sit down at the right hand of God, who liveth and reigneth God for ever and ever. And we ask and beseech you in the name of our Lord Jesus, who has ever been with us and aided us and freed us from all our tribulations, to be mindful of your brethren who return to you, by doing them kindnesses and by paying their debts, in order that God may recompense you and absolve from all your sins and grant you a share in all the blessings either we or they have deserved in the sight of the Lord. Amen.

Laodicea, September, 1099.

"Chiquita Bacana" by Braguinha and Alberto Ribeiro (in Portuguese)

Chiquita bacana lá da Martinica
Se veste com uma casa de banana nanica

Não usa vestido, oi! não usa calção
Inverno pra ela é pleno verão
Existencialista com toda razão
Só faz o que manda o seu coração, ôi!

You can hear "Chiquita Bacana" sung by Emilinha Borba here.

"Apparecchio alla Morte" by St Alfonso Maria de Liguori (in Italian) – XXX

CONSIDERAZIONE XXIX - DEL PARADISO

«Tristitia vestra vertetur in gaudium» (Io. 16. 20).

PUNTO I

              Procuriamo al presente di soffrir con pazienza le afflizioni di questa vita, offerendole a Dio in unione delle pene che patì Gesu-Cristo per nostro amore; e facciamoci animo colla speranza del paradiso. Finiranno un giorno tutte queste angustie, dolori, persecuzioni, timori; e salvandoci, diventeranno per noi gaudii e contenti nel regno de' beati. Così ci fa animo il Signore: «Tristitia vestra vertetur in gaudium» (Io. 16. 20). Consideriamo dunque oggi qualche cosa del paradiso. Ma che diremo di questo paradiso, se neppure i santi più illuminati han saputo darci ad intendere le delizie, che Dio riserva a' suoi servi fedeli? Davide altro non seppe dirne che 'l paradiso è un bene troppo desiderabile: «Quam dilecta tabernacula tua, Domine virtutum!» (Ps. 83. 2). Ma voi almeno, S. Paolo mio, voi che aveste la sorte d'essere stato rapito a vedere il cielo («Raptus in paradisum»), diteci qualche cosa di ciò che avete veduto. No, dice l'Apostolo, ciò che ho veduto, non è possibile spiegarlo. Son le delizie del paradiso: «Arcana verba, quae non licet homini loqui» (2. Cor. 12. 4). Sono sì grandi che non possono spiegarsi, se non si godono. Altro io non posso dirvi, dice l'Apostolo, che «oculus non vidit, nec auris audivit, neque in cor hominis ascendit, quae praeparavit Deus iis, qui diligunt illum» (1. Cor. 2. 9). Niun uomo in terra ha vedute mai, né udite, né comprese le bellezze, le armonie, i contenti, che Dio ha preparati a coloro che l'amano.

              Non possiamo noi esser capaci de i beni del paradiso, perché non abbiamo altre idee, che de' beni di questa terra. Se i cavalli avessero mai il discorso, e sapessero che il padrone sposandosi ha preparato un gran banchetto, s'immaginerebbero che il banchetto non consisterebbe in altro, che in buona paglia, buona avena ed orzo: perché i cavalli non hanno idea d'altri cibi che di questi. Così pensiamo noi de i beni del paradiso. È bello il vedere in tempo d'està nella notte il cielo stellato: è gran delizia in tempo di primavera trovarsi in una marina, quando il mare è placido, in cui vi si vedono dentro scogli vestiti d'erba, e pesci che guizzano: è gran delizia il trovarsi in un giardino pieno di frutti e fiori, circondato da fontane che scorrono, e con uccelli che van volando e cantando d'intorno. Dirà taluno: Oh che paradiso! Che paradiso? che paradiso? altri sono i beni del paradiso. Per intendere qualche cosa in confuso del paradiso, si consideri ch'ivi sta un Dio onnipotente, impegnato a deliziare le anime che ama. Dice S. Bernardo: Vuoi sapere che cosa vi è in paradiso? «Nihil est quod nolis, totum est quod velis». Ivi non vi è cosa che dispiaccia, e vi è tutto quello che piace.

              Oh Dio, che dirà l'anima in entrare in quel regno beato! Immaginiamoci che muoia quella verginella, o quel giovine, ch'essendosi consagrato all'amore di Gesu-Cristo, arrivata la morte, lascia già questa terra. L'anima è presentata al giudizio, il giudice l'abbraccia e le dichiara ch'è salva. Le viene ad incontro l'Angelo Custode, e se ne rallegra; ella lo ringrazia dell'assistenza fattale, e l'Angelo poi le dice: Via su, anima bella, allegramente già sei salva, vieni a vedere la faccia del tuo Signore. Ecco l'anima già passa le nubi, le sfere, le stelle: entra nel cielo. Oh Dio, che dirà nel metter piede la prima volta in quella patria beata, e in dar la prima occhiata a quella città di delizie! Gli angeli e i santi le verranno ad incontro, e giubilando le daranno il benvenuto. Ivi che consolazione avrà in incontrarsi co' suoi parenti, o amici entrati già prima in paradiso, e co' suoi santi avvocati! Vorrà l'anima allora genuflettersi avanti di loro per venerarli, ma le diranno quei santi: «Vide ne faceris, conservus tuus sum» (Apoc. 22. 9). Indi sarà portata a baciare i piedi a Maria ch'è la Regina del paradiso. Qual tenerezza sentirà l'anima in conoscere di vista la prima volta quella divina Madre, che tanto l'ha aiutata a salvarsi! Poiché allora vedrà l'anima tutte le grazie, che le ha ottenute Maria, dalla quale poi si vedrà amorosamente abbracciata. Indi dalla stessa Regina sarà l'anima condotta a Gesù, che la riceverà come sposa e le dirà: «Veni de Libano, sponsa mea, veni, coronaberis» (Cant. 4. 8). Sposa mia, allegramente, son finite le lagrime, le pene e i timori; ricevi la corona eterna, ch'io t'ho acquistata col mio sangue. Gesù stesso poi la porterà a ricever la benedizione dal suo Padre divino, che abbracciandola la benedirà dicendole: «Intra in gaudium Domini tui» (Matth. 25. 21). Ella sarà beata della medesima beatitudine ch'Egli gode.

Affetti e preghiere

              Ecco, mio Dio a' piedi vostri un ingrato, creato da Voi per lo paradiso, ma egli tante volte per miseri piaceri ve l'ha rinunziato in faccia, contentandosi d'esser condannato all'inferno. Ma spero che Voi già m'abbiate perdonato tutte l'ingiurie che v'ho fatto, delle quali sempre di nuovo mi pento, e voglio pentirmene sino alla morte; e voglio che sempre Voi di nuovo me le torniate a perdonare. Ma oh Dio, che benché Voi m'abbiate già perdonato, sempre non però sarà vero ch'io ho avuto l'animo di amareggiare Voi, mio Redentore, che per condurmi al vostro regno avete data la vita. Ma sia sempre lodata e benedetta la vostra misericordia, o Gesù mio, che con tanta pazienza m'avete sopportato; e in vece di castighi avete accresciute verso di me le grazie, i lumi e le chiamate. Vedo, caro mio Salvatore, che proprio mi volete salvo, mi volete nella vostra patria ad amarvi eternamente, ma volete ch'io prima v'ami in questa terra. Sì, che voglio amarvi. Ancorché non vi fosse paradiso, io voglio amarvi, finché vivo, con tutta l'anima, con tutte le mie forze. Mi basti il sapere che Voi, mio Dio, desiderate esser amato da me. Gesù mio, assistemi con la vostra grazia, non mi abbandonate. L'anima mia è eterna, dunque sto nella sorte o di amarvi, o di odiarvi in eterno? No, io in eterno voglio amarvi, e voglio amarvi assai in questa vita, per amarvi assai nell'altra. Disponete di me come vi piace, castigatemi qui come volete, non mi private del vostro amore, e poi fatene di me quel che vi piace. Gesù mio, i meriti vostri sono la speranza mia.

              O Maria, nella vostra intercessione io tutto confido. Voi m'avete liberato dall'inferno, quand'io stava in peccato; ora che voglio amar Dio, Voi mi avete da salvare e da far santo.

PUNTO II

              Entrata che sarà l'anima nella beatitudine di Dio, «nihil est quod nolit», non avrà cosa più che l'affanni. «Absterget Deus omnem lacrimam ab oculis eorum, et mors ultra non erit; neque luctus, neque clamor, neque dolor erit ultra; quia prima abierunt. Et dixit qui sedebat in throno: Ecce nova facio omnia» (Apoc. 21. 4). Nel paradiso non vi sono più infermità, non povertà, né incomodi: non vi sono più vicende di giorni e di notti, né di freddo o di caldo. Ivi è un continuo giorno sempre sereno, una continua primavera sempre deliziosa. Ivi non vi sono più persecuzioni o invidie; in quel regno d'amore tutti s'amano teneramente, e ciascuno gode del bene dell'altro come fosse suo. Non vi sono più timori, perché l'anima confermata in grazia non può più peccare e perdere il suo Dio. «Ecce nova facio omnia». Ogni cosa è nuova, ed ogni cosa consola e sazia. «Totum est quod velis». Ivi sarà contentata la vista, in rimirare quella città di perfetta bellezza: «Urbs perfecti decoris» (Thren. 2. 15). Che delizia sarebbe vedere una città, dove il pavimento delle vie fosse di cristallo, i palagi d'argento con i soffitti d'oro, e tutt'adorni di festoni di fiori? Oh quanto sarà più bella la città del paradiso! Che sarà poi vedere que' cittadini tutti vestiti alla regale, poiché tutti sono re, come parla S. Agostino: «Quot cives tot reges!» Che sarà veder Maria, che comparirà più bella che tutto il paradiso! Che sarà poi vedere l'Agnello divino, lo sposo Gesù! Santa Teresa appena vide una volta una mano di Gesu-Cristo, rimase stupida per tanta bellezza. Sarà contentato l'odorato con quegli odori, ma odori di paradiso. Sarà contentato l'udito colle armonie celesti. S. Francesco intese una volta da un angelo una sola arcata di viola, ed ebbe a morirne per la dolcezza. Che sarà sentir tutt'i santi e gli angeli cantare a coro le glorie di Dio! «In saecula saeculorum laudabunt te» (Ps. 83. 5). Che sarà udir Maria che loda Dio! La voce di Maria in cielo, dice S. Francesco di Sales, sarà come d'un uscignuolo in un bosco, che supera il canto di tutti gli altri uccellini, che vi sono. In somma ivi son tutte le delizie, che possono desiderarsi.

              Ma queste delizie sinora considerate sono i minori beni del paradiso. Il bene che fa il paradiso è il sommo bene ch'è Dio. «Totum quod exspectamus (dice S. Agostino), duae syllabae sunt, Deus». Il premio che il Signore ci promette, non sono solamente le bellezze, le armonie e gli altri gaudi di quella città beata: il premio principale è Dio medesimo, cioè il vedere e l'amare Dio da faccia a faccia. «Ego ero merces tua magna nimis» (Gen. 15. 1). Dice S. Agostino che se Dio facesse veder la sua faccia a' dannati, «continuo infernus ipse in amoenum converteretur paradisum» (Tom. 9. de Tripl. habit.). E soggiunge che se ad un'anima uscita da questa vita stesse ad eleggere o di veder Dio e star nelle pene dell'inferno, o pure di non vederlo ed esser liberata dall'inferno, «eligeret potius videre Dominum, et esse in illis poenis».

              Questo gaudio di vedere e amar Dio da faccia a faccia, da noi in questa vita non può comprendersi; ma argomentiamone qualche cosa dal saper per prima che l'amor divino è così dolce, che anche in questa vita è giunto a sollevar da terra non solo l'anime, ma ancora i corpi de' santi. S. Filippo Neri fu una volta rapito in aria con tutto lo scanno a cui s'afferrò. S. Pietro d'Alcantara fu anche alzato da terra abbracciato ad un albero svelto sin dalle radici. In oltre sappiamo che i santi martiri per la dolcezza dell'amor divino giubilavano negli stessi tormenti. S. Vincenzo mentr'era tormentato, parlava in modo (dice S. Agostino) che «alius videbatur pati, alius loqui». S. Lorenzo stando sulla graticola sul fuoco, insultava il tiranno: «Versa, et manduca»; sì, dice lo stesso S. Agostino, perché Lorenzo, «hoc igne (del divino amore) accensus non sentit incendium». In oltre, che dolcezze prova un peccatore in questa terra, anche in piangere i suoi peccati! Onde dicea S. Bernardo: «Si tam dulce est flere pro te, quid erit gaudere de te». Che suavità poi non prova un'anima, a cui nell'orazione se le scopre con un raggio di luce la divina bontà, le misericordie che l'ha usate e l'amore che l'ha portato e porta Gesu-Cristo! si sente allora l'anima struggere, e venir meno per l'amore. E pure in questa terra noi non vediamo Dio com'è: lo vediamo allo scuro. «Videmus nunc per speculum in aenigmate, tunc autem facie ad faciem» (1. Cor. 13. 12). Al presente noi abbiamo una benda avanti gli occhi, e Dio sta sotto la portiera della fede, e non si fa da noi vedere; che sarà quando dagli occhi nostri si toglierà la benda, e s'alzerà la portiera, e vedremo Dio da faccia a faccia? vedremo quant'è bello Dio, quant'è grande, quant'è giusto, quant'è perfetto, quant'è amabile e quant'amoroso.

Affetti e preghiere

              Ah mio sommo bene, io sono quel misero, che vi ho voltate le spalle, ed ho rinunziato al vostro amore. Perciò non sarei più degno né di vedervi, né di amarvi. Ma Voi siete quegli, che per aver compassione di me, non avete avuto compassione di Voi, condannandovi a morir di dolore svergognato su d'un legno infame. La vostra morte dunque mi dà a sperare, che un giorno avrò da vedere e godere la vostra faccia, con amarvi allora con tutte le mie forze. Ma ora che sto in pericolo di perdervi per sempre, ora che mi trovo di avervi già perduto co' miei peccati, che farò nella vita che mi resta? seguiterò ad offendervi? No, Gesù mio, io detesto con tutto l'odio l'offese che v'ho fatte; mi dispiace sommamente di avervi ingiuriato, e v'amo con tutto il cuore. Discaccerete da Voi un'anima, che si pente e v'ama? No, già so quel che Voi avete detto, che non sapete, amato mio Redentore, discacciar niuno che viene pentito a' piedi vostri: «Eum qui venit ad me, non eiiciam foras» (Io. 6. 37). Gesù mio, io lascio tutto, e mi converto a Voi; v'abbraccio, vi stringo al mio cuore; abbracciatemi e stringetemi al vostro Cuore ancora Voi. Ardisco di parlare così, perché parlo e tratto con una bontà infinita: parlo con un Dio, che si è contentato di morire per amor mio. Caro mio Salvatore, datemi perseveranza nel vostro amore.

              Cara Madre mia Maria, per quanto amate Gesu-Cristo ottenetemi questa perseveranza. Così spero, così sia.

PUNTO III

              In questa terra la maggior pena che affligge l'anime che amano Dio, e sono in desolazione, è il timore di non amare e di non essere amate da Dio. «Nescit homo, utrum amore an odio dignus sit» (Eccle. 9. 1). Ma nel paradiso l'anima è sicura ch'ella ama Dio, e ch'è amata da Dio; vede ch'ella è felicemente perduta nell'amor del suo Signore, e che 'l Signore la tiene abbracciata come figlia cara, e vede che quest'amore non si scioglierà mai più in eterno. Accrescerà le beate fiamme all'anima il meglio conoscere che farà allora, quale amore è stato di Dio l'essersi fatto uomo, e morire per lei! quale amore l'istituzione del SS. Sagramento, un Dio farsi cibo d'un verme! Vedrà allora anche l'anima distintamente tutte le grazie che Dio le ha fatte in liberarla da tante tentazioni e pericoli di perdersi; ed allora vedrà che quelle tribolazioni, infermità, persecuzioni e perdite, ch'ella chiamava disgrazie e castighi di Dio, sono state tutte amore e tiri della divina provvidenza per condurla al paradiso. Vedrà specialmente la pazienza che ha avuta Dio in sopportarla dopo tanti peccati, e le misericordie che le ha usate, donandole tanti lumi e tante chiamate d'amore. Vedrà lassù di quel monte beato tante anime dannate nell'inferno per meno peccati de' suoi, ed ella si vedrà già salva, che possiede Dio, ed è sicura di non avere più a perdere quel sommo bene per tutta l'eternità.

              Sempre dunque il beato goderà quella felicità, che per tutta l'eternità in ogni momento gli sarà sempre nuova, come se quel momento fosse la prima volta in cui la godesse. Sempre desidererà quel gaudio, e sempre l'otterrà: sempre contenta, sempre sitibonda: sempre sitibonda, e sempre saziata; sì, perché il desiderio del paradiso non porta pena, e 'l possesso non porta tedio. In somma siccome i dannati sono vasi pieni d'ira, i beati sono vasi pieni di contento, in modo che non hanno più che desiderare. Dice S. Teresa che anche in questa terra, quando Iddio introduce un'anima nella cella del vino, cioè del suo divino amore, la rende felicemente ubbriaca, talmente ch'ella perde l'affetto a tutte le cose terrene. Ma in entrare in paradiso, oh quanto più perfettamente, come dice Davide, gli eletti «inebriabuntur ab ubertate domus tuae» (Ps. 35. 9). Allora avverrà che l'anima in vedere alla scoverta, e in abbracciarsi col suo sommo bene, resterà talmente inebriata d'amore, che felicemente si perderà in Dio, cioè affatto si scorderà di se stessa, e non penserà d'allora in poi che ad amare, a lodare e benedire quell'infinito bene, che possiede.

              Quando dunque ci affliggono le croci di questa vita, confortiamoci a sopportarle pazientemente colla speranza del paradiso. S. Maria Egizziaca, dimandata in fine della sua vita dall'Abbate Zosimo, come avea potuto soffrire di vivere per tanti anni in quel deserto? Rispose: «Colla speranza del paradiso». S. Filippo Neri, essendogli offerta la dignità cardinalizia, buttò la berretta in aria dicendo: «Paradiso, paradiso». Fra Egidio Francescano in sentir nominare paradiso, era sollevato in aria per lo contento. Così parimenti ancora noi, quando ci vediamo angustiati dalle miserie di questa terra, alziamo gli occhi al cielo e consoliamoci, sospirando e dicendo: «Paradiso, paradiso». Pensiamo, che, se saremo fedeli a Dio, finiranno un giorno tutte queste pene, miserie e timori, e saremo ammessi in quella patria beata, dove saremo pienamente felici, mentre Dio sarà Dio. Ecco che ci aspettano i santi, ci aspetta Maria; e Gesù sta colla corona in mano, per renderci re di quel regno eterno.

Affetti e preghiere

              Caro mio Salvatore, Voi mi avete insegnato a pregarvi: «Adveniat regnum tuum»: così dunque ora vi prego, venga il tuo regno nell'anima mia, sicché Voi la possediate tutta, ed ella possegga Voi sommo bene. O Gesù mio, Voi non avete niente risparmiato per salvarmi, e per acquistarvi il mio amore; salvatemi dunque, e la salute mia sia l'amarvi per sempre in questa e nell'altra vita. Io tante volte vi ho voltato le spalle, e con tutto ciò Voi mi fate sapere che non isdegnerete di tenermi abbracciato in paradiso per tutta l'eternità con tanto amore, come s'io non mai vi avessi offeso; ed io sapendo ciò potrò amare altri che Voi, vedendo che volete darmi il paradiso, dopo che tante volte m'ho meritato l'inferno? Ah mio Signore, non vi avessi mai offeso! Oh se tornassi a nascere, vorrei sempre amarvi! Ma il fatto è fatto. Or altro non posso che donare a Voi questa vita che mi resta. Sì, a Voi tutta la dono; tutto mi consagro al vostro amore. Uscite del mio cuore, affetti terreni, date luogo al mio Dio, che vuol possederlo tutto. Sì possedetemi tutto, o mio Redentore, mio amore, mio Dio. Da ogg'innanzi non voglio pensare che a compiacervi. Aiutatemi colla vostra grazia; così spero ai meriti vostri. Accrescete sempre più in me l'amor vostro e 'l desiderio di darvi gusto. Paradiso, paradiso! Quando sarà, Signore, che vi vedrò da faccia a faccia? e mi abbraccerò con Voi, senza timore di avervi più a perdere? Ah mio Dio, tenetemi le mani sopra, acciocché non vi offenda più.

              O Maria, quando sarà che mi vedrò a' piedi vostri in paradiso? Soccorretemi, Madre mia, non permettete ch'io mi danni e che vada a star lontano da Voi e dal vostro Figlio.