Prevod

I am going to tell you a tale of the great Night, told to me by an old pilgrim, weary now of travelling all the roads and paths of this world, and longing only to rest his head upon a stone and die forgotten. If the tale is somewhat sombre, put it down to the weariness and many misfortunes of the man who recounted this dreamlike vision to me.

On Christmas Eve in one of these recent years, you must know, our Lord Jesus Christ himself wished to come down to earth and wander through it; for, as everyone who has read the holy text knows, Jesus delights in dwelling among the children of men.

And so he left his throne and his seat at the right hand of the Father, and, concealing the majesty and beauty of his countenance beneath a form that would not dazzle mortal eyes, and might at times even be invisible to them, he descended into the world, hoping to find compassion, love, and brotherly rejoicing. Nature seems to share in the solemnity of the day: in the firmament, clear as a vault of crystal, stars of gold and pale emerald shine, twinkling like an affectionate glance; not a breath of air stirs, not a particle of moisture gathered into the shape of a little cloud dims the splendour of the night.—At the pole, when the sacred foot of Jesus touches the frozen expanse, a magnificent aurora borealis suddenly flares up, as though to welcome him: blazing reflections, purple and orange, colour the snow and strike diamond sparks from the enormous icebergs. But what does the magic of the spectacle matter to Jesus? What he seeks is the light of dawn in human hearts; it is the wonders of the soul that draw him, not the play of lights upon unfeeling rocks and frozen wastes.—And he passes on.

The first place where he finds men is a barren plain, the floor of a valley bounded and crowned by lofty mountains. Men, yes, cover the ground, packed as thickly as corn laid low by the reaper’s scythe; but men motionless, rigid, contorted, in violent postures; and on their livid faces, turned towards the sky radiant with gentle starlight, in their open, unseeing eyes, an expression of rage or terror persists in defiance of death... For it is corpses that cover the plain, and the plain is a battlefield.—Jesus gazes at them thoughtfully for a few moments. In their torn-open breasts the crimson wounds look like mouths; on their shattered brows, the black clots of blood resemble funereal moths of that dreadful species called Atropos, which bears the image of a skull upon its thorax. Some of the men lying on the plain are still breathing: if one listens, their hoarse death rattle can be heard. An old woman, dissolved in tears, shielding a trembling little light with her hand, makes her way among them, stooping to look at their faces: perhaps she is searching for her son among the dead. A riderless horse passes, sniffing at the carnage and fleeing in a frenzy...—And Jesus goes on, leaving them behind.

He enters a populous city. Merry people throng the streets, enjoying the delicious mildness of a night as balmy as any in spring. Wine-thickened voices sing out of tune; guitars accompany bawdy verses with their shameless strumming; tambourines rattle madly, and the discordant sounds of fiddles, friction drums, chirring noisemakers, and metal rattles tangle in the air like witches flying to the sabbath. The crowd, spilling through the streets, swirls before the packed cafés, stifling with heat; now and then a group slips through the door of some stinking little tavern, from which come stamping feet, uproar, blasphemies, and the reek of spirits.

Before one of these sordid dens the Nazarene stops. At the far end he sees a group around a table: two men and a woman. She eggs them both on, provokes them, plays them against each other; they drink glass after glass and quarrel. One throws a glass in the other’s face: the glass shatters, and the man rises, wine dregs mingled with blood streaming down him. The other drinkers intervene, rebuke the uninjured man, soothe the wounded one, wipe his face, make jokes, compel the adversaries to make peace, urge them to embrace with a laugh; the uninjured man opens his arms, cordially and without the slightest suspicion; the wounded man slips his open hand into his pocket; the flash of a knife cuts through the air, and a man falls with his lung sliced open.

Jesus turns aside, walks on, and sees a grand, brightly lit entrance supported by columns of red marble with bronze capitals. He climbs the staircase, covered with a thick carpet and adorned with fine tapestries of battles and hunts, and enters a spacious antechamber where servants in knee-breeches and authentic suits of equestrian armour stand guard. The antechamber opens into a small, unfurnished drawing room, lit by hundreds of electric globes, and at the far end, beneath clouds of fine tulle whipped into foam, appears an enchanting Bethlehem, a Nativity scene for millionaire children, a work of art rather than of simple devotion. Through the fields and hillocks fashioned from moss and pumice stone, dotted with dwarf palms and graceful miniature sycamores, real streams glide murmuring, set flowing, no doubt, by some ingenious hydraulic mechanism. From the pumice mountains, whose summits gleaming white powder adorns with imitation snow, descends the torrent of Kidron, and from the real turf of the gardens tall fountains leap and dissolve into spray in the air. A miniature lake reflects in its crystalline depths the towers of Jerusalem, the circuit of its walls, the domes of the temple, and the crowded olive trees of the garden of Gethsemane climbing the hillside. None of the thousand picturesque details of Nativity scenes is missing from this one, except that the perfectly modelled figures are exquisite little dolls, and everything, from the group of shepherds kneeling as though in ecstasy to the Magi who appear astride their dromedaries in a wild ravine, reveals the hand of a skilled sculptor. The marvel is the grotto; made of tiny pieces of rock crystal and clusters of amethyst, it shimmers with a multitude of shifting colours when struck by the light of a star-shaped electric lamp suspended high above, swaying on a string of pearls. And in the dazzling grotto, between an ass and an ox of chased silver, the Virgin, in gold, watches over the Child, also of gold and enamel, with a little head of mother-of-pearl. To provide a worthy setting for that group, a jewel of Florentine Renaissance goldsmiths’ work, perhaps by Benvenuto Cellini, those figures in which the richness of the material rivals the priceless workmanship, this sumptuous Bethlehem has undoubtedly been built, and the torrents and little waterfalls set running beneath the palms and olive trees.—The strange thing was that there was no one, absolutely no one, in the room; no one to admire such a marvel, no one to keep the infant Jesus of gold and precious stones company, so that he would not freeze in his grotto of crystals, amid the violet reflections of the amethyst and the many-coloured flashes of the translucent rock... And yet the palace could not have been deserted, but must, on the contrary, have been full of people: in the atmosphere one could sense that vibration, those warm emanations produced only by the breath of many men and women gathered for a celebration. From the far end of a gallery there sometimes came a lingering murmur, the broken cadences of buoyant, sensual music, the warbling of laughter. Jesus went forward and found himself in the gallery, a beautiful winter garden adorned with gigantic plants and trees from distant climes, rubber trees and lantanas with enormous leaves, cycads and pandanus trees whose intricate forms resembled pagodas and obelisks of green porcelain. Scattered about the garden stood tables where merry groups were dining: women in all their finery, studded with jewels, men displaying on the satin lapels of their scarlet tailcoats gardenias already wilted by the heat. The string orchestra, hidden in a Moorish pavilion draped in flowering vines, softly accompanied the murmur of conversation and melodious laughter, the tinkling of transparent glasses rimmed with Champagne foam, and the faint clatter of plates, which the servants’ dexterity muffled as much as possible. It was a sumptuous Christmas supper.—Jesus drew back and returned to the room with the Nativity scene, where he saw himself once more in the stable, a child and alone. The brush of footsteps sounded on the inlaid wooden floor, and a woman, a young girl with blue eyes and a white dress with a modest neckline, entered the little room, went straight to the Nativity scene, and bestowed a tender smile upon the Child, whom she gazed at lovingly for a while. Then, like someone obliged to conceal a stolen absence, she hurried back to the gallery, where perhaps she was being missed. She was the daughter of the master of the house. The golden Child no longer felt so cold, and Jesus, stretching out his hand, blessed the maiden, the only one who remembered the Mystery...

He left the palace without looking back and went away from the town, from the great corrupt and filthy city, just as he had gone away from the sinister, blood-soaked battlefield. A sudden change in the atmosphere foretold a storm: dense clouds, dark as lead, raced across the sky; gusts of icy north wind lashed the trees, and the dreadful bellowing of the sea could be heard as it broke against the reefs. Jesus found himself in a fishing village, a wretched cluster of huts perched like a gull’s nest in a cleft of the wild coast. Despite the hour, late enough for people who usually spare their lights, no one in the village is asleep: the cabin doors burst open, and men and women, equipped with lighted lanterns and long poles, boat hooks, baskets, and sacks, make for the beach in a throng, heedless of the wind lashing their faces and the rain beginning to fall, driven by the furious gusts of the hurricane. The Ocean presents an awe-inspiring sight: gigantic waves, crested with foam, rear up to reveal abysses, and the sulphurous zigzag of a lightning bolt illuminates a vessel drifting without a course in the depths of the chasm. The people on the shore raise their lights and make them shine, and the ship, believing it can discern salvation in them, a friendly harbour, steers towards the coast and, rushing headlong, strikes the shoal, where it lodges, shattered. The shipwrecked people, who could be seen in another flash of lightning upon the deck, in postures of terror and despair, throw themselves into the water clinging to planks, grasping ropes, astride barrels; and struggling against the monstrous waves that shake them and batter them against the rocks, they swim desperately towards the beach, where lights shine and move, where they can see human figures stirring. And then something dreadful happens: those waiting on the beach for the shipwrecked people, when they see them arrive half-dead, drive them back into the water with poles, boat hooks, oars, sticks, and knives; but first they strip them of the leather belts in which they had saved their gold and papers, of the wallets they had tied beneath their arms when they realised the danger, of their clothes, of everything they possess; and lest the waves be slow in doing their work, they stun the wretches with a blow to the head and fling them, now senseless, into the deep. And dancing with joy, or snarling like dogs over the division of the spoils, they await daybreak at the foot of the reefs, to gather the wreckage of the ship that the sea will soon spit out, profit from their fortunate windfall, and afterwards celebrate the day of the Lord’s Nativity with a coarse and lavish feast...

The Redeemer has fled the beach: his eyes are clouded, his soul sorrowful unto death, as it was when he sweated blood in Gethsemane. And his heart, burning with charity as never before, insatiable in its love for mankind, feels the sharp, invisible thorns of the crown piercing it. For this race he had been born in the stable and had died upon the cross!—Entering one of the cabins the fishermen left deserted when they went out on their dreadful fishing for shipwrecked souls, he sees a child kneeling in a corner near the fire. Finding himself so alone, the little boy has grown frightened; he has drawn near the hearth for warmth, and prays for shelter and protection. Jesus takes him in his arms, kisses him, puts him to bed, lays his hand upon his eyes, and leaves him peacefully asleep, dreaming of angels. And as he ascends once more to heaven, Jesus carries four pearls in the hollow of his hand: the tears of a mother searching for her son on the battlefield; the embrace of a man asking forgiveness for an injury he has done; the smile of a maiden, and the prayer of an innocent.