Selma Lagerlof Stories of foreign writers (collection). Book: "Tales and stories of modern foreign writers

I don't remember exactly what year it was. Whole month I hunted with enthusiasm, with wild joy, with the ardor that you bring to new passions.

I lived in Normandy, with a single relative, Jules de Banneville, in his family castle, alone with him, with his maid, footman and watchman. A dilapidated building surrounded by groaning fir trees in the middle of long oak avenues through which the wind rushed; the castle seemed long abandoned. In the corridor, where the wind blew, as in the avenues of a park, hung portraits of all those people who once ceremoniously received noble neighbors in these rooms, now locked and cluttered with nothing but antique furniture.

As for us, we simply fled into the kitchen, where there was only one to live in, into a huge kitchen, the dark nooks and crannies of which were lit up only when a new pile of firewood was thrown into the huge fireplace. Every evening we dozed sweetly by the fireplace, in front of which our wet boots smoked, and the hunting dogs curled up at our feet barked in their sleep, seeing the hunt again; then we went upstairs to our room.

It was the only room in which all the walls and ceiling were carefully plastered because of the mice. But, bleached with lime, it remained bare, and only guns, rapniks and hunting horns hung on its walls; chattering our teeth from the cold, we climbed into the beds that stood on both sides of this Siberian dwelling.

At a distance of one league from the castle, a steep bank broke into the sea; from the powerful breath of the ocean, day and night, tall bent trees groaned, roofs and weather vanes creaked as if with a cry, and the whole venerable building crackled, filling with wind through thinning tiles, through fireplaces as wide as an abyss, through windows that no longer closed.

That day there was a terrible frost. Evening came. We were about to sit at a table in front of a high fireplace, where a hare's back and two partridges were roasting on a bright fire, emitting a delicious smell.

My cousin raised his head.

“It won’t be hot to sleep tonight,” he said.

I answered indifferently:

- Yes, but tomorrow morning there will be ducks on the ponds.

The servant girl, who was setting the table for us at one end and for the servants at the other, asked:

Do the gentlemen know that today is Christmas Eve?

Of course, we didn't know, because we almost never looked at the calendar. My friend said:

“So there will be midnight Mass tonight.” So that's why they've been calling all day!

The maid replied:

“Yes and no, sir; they also called because Uncle Fournel had died.

Uncle Fournel, an old shepherd, was a local celebrity. He was ninety-six years of age, and he never fell ill until the very time when, a month ago, he caught a cold after falling down. dark night into the swamp. The next day he fell ill and has been dying ever since.

The cousin turned to me:

“If you want, let’s go visit these poor people now.”

He meant the old man's family—his fifty-eight-year-old grandson and his grandson's fifty-seven-year-old wife. The intermediate generation has long since died. They huddled in a miserable shack, at the entrance to the village, to the right.

I don't know why, but the thought of Christmas in this wilderness got us to chat. We told each other all sorts of stories about previous Christmas Eve, about our adventures on this crazy night, about past successes with women and about awakenings the next day - awakenings together, accompanied by surprise and risky surprises.

Thus, our lunch was delayed. Having finished with him, we smoked a lot of pipes and, seized by the gaiety of hermits, the cheerful sociability that suddenly arises between two bosom friends, continued to talk incessantly, going over in conversation the most intimate memories that are shared during hours of such closeness.

The maid who left us long ago reappeared:

"Sir, I'm going to Mass."

- A quarter past twelve.

- Shall we go to church? Jules asked. – The Christmas mass is very curious in the countryside.

I agreed, and we set off, wrapped in hunting fur coats.

Severe frost pricked his face, and his eyes watered. The air was so icy that it took your breath away and your throat dried up. The deep, clear and severe sky was dotted with stars, they seemed to have turned pale from frost and flickered not like lights, but like sparkling ice floes, like shining crystals. In the distance, on the sonorous, dry and resonant earth, like copper, peasant clogs rang, and all around small village bells rang, sending their liquid and, as it were, also chilly sounds into the freezing expanse of night.

They didn't sleep in the village. The roosters crowed, deceived by all these sounds, and passing by the barns, one could hear the animals moving, awakened by this roar of life.

Approaching the village, Jules remembered the Fournels.

“Here’s their shack,” he said, “let’s go in!”

He knocked for a long time, but in vain. Finally, we were seen by a neighbor who left the house to go to church.

“They went to matins, gentlemen, to pray for the old man.

“So we will see them when we leave the church,” Jules told me.

The setting moon stood out like a sickle on the edge of the horizon amid an endless scattering of sparkling grains thrown into space with a flurry. And across the black plain, trembling lights moved, heading from everywhere to the pointed bell tower ringing incessantly. Through the tree-lined farms, through the dark valleys, these lights flickered everywhere, almost touching the ground. They were cow horn lanterns. Peasants walked with them in front of their wives, dressed in white caps and wide black cloaks, accompanied by awakened children who held their hands.

A lighted pulpit could be seen through the open door of the church. A garland of cheap candles illuminated the middle of the church, and in its left aisle the chubby wax baby Jesus, lying on real straw, among spruce branches, flaunted his pink, cutesy nakedness.

The service has started. The peasants bowed their heads and the women knelt down and prayed. These simple people Rising into the cold night, they looked with emotion at the crudely painted image and folded their hands, looking with naive timidity at the wretched luxury of this childish performance.

The cold air stirred the flames of the candles. Jules told me:

- Let's get out of here! Still better outside.

Heading home along the lonely road, while the kneeling peasants trembled devoutly in the church, we relapsed into our reminiscences and talked so long that the service was already over when we came back to the village.

A thin streak of light shone from under the Furnels' door.

“They watch over the dead,” said my cousin. “Let’s finally go to these poor fellows, it will please them.”

Several firebrands were burning in the hearth. The dark room, the greasy walls of which were glossy and the worm-eaten beams blackened with age, was full of the suffocating smell of roasted blood sausage. On a large table, from under which a bread chest protruded like a huge belly, a candle burned in a twisted iron candlestick; acrid smoke from a wick burnt with a mushroom rose to the ceiling. Furneli, husband and wife, broke their fast in private.

Gloomy, with a dejected look and stupid peasant faces, they ate intently, without uttering a word. On the only plate between them lay a large piece of black pudding, spreading a fetid steam. From time to time, with the end of a knife, they cut off a circle from it, put it on bread and began to chew slowly.

When the husband's glass was empty, the wife took the pitcher and filled it with cider.

When we appeared, they stood up, seated us, offered to “follow their example”, and after our refusal they again began to eat.

© RIPOL Classic Group of Companies LLC, 2016

* * *

Guy de Maupassant
Translation from French by A. Chebotareva
Christmas Eve

I don't remember exactly what year it was. For a whole month I hunted with enthusiasm, with wild joy, with the ardor that you bring to new passions.

I lived in Normandy, with a single relative, Jules de Banneville, in his family castle, alone with him, with his maid, footman and watchman. A dilapidated building surrounded by groaning fir trees in the middle of long oak avenues through which the wind rushed; the castle seemed long abandoned. In the corridor, where the wind blew, as in the avenues of a park, hung portraits of all those people who once ceremoniously received noble neighbors in these rooms, now locked and cluttered with nothing but antique furniture.

As for us, we simply fled into the kitchen, where there was only one to live in, into a huge kitchen, the dark nooks and crannies of which were lit up only when a new pile of firewood was thrown into the huge fireplace. Every evening we dozed sweetly by the fireplace, in front of which our wet boots smoked, and the hunting dogs curled up at our feet barked in their sleep, seeing the hunt again; then we went upstairs to our room.

It was the only room in which all the walls and ceiling were carefully plastered because of the mice. But, bleached with lime, it remained bare, and only guns, rapniks and hunting horns hung on its walls; chattering our teeth from the cold, we climbed into the beds that stood on both sides of this Siberian dwelling.

At a distance of one league from the castle, a steep bank broke into the sea; from the powerful breath of the ocean, day and night, tall bent trees groaned, roofs and weather vanes creaked as if with a cry, and the whole venerable building crackled, filling with wind through thinning tiles, through fireplaces as wide as an abyss, through windows that no longer closed.

That day there was a terrible frost. Evening came. We were about to sit at a table in front of a high fireplace, where a hare's back and two partridges were roasting on a bright fire, emitting a delicious smell.

My cousin raised his head.

“It won’t be hot to sleep tonight,” he said.

I answered indifferently:

- Yes, but tomorrow morning there will be ducks on the ponds.

The servant girl, who was setting the table for us at one end and for the servants at the other, asked:

Do the gentlemen know that today is Christmas Eve?

Of course, we didn't know, because we almost never looked at the calendar. My friend said:

“So there will be midnight Mass tonight.” So that's why they've been calling all day!

The maid replied:

“Yes and no, sir; they also called because Uncle Fournel had died.

Uncle Fournel, an old shepherd, was a local celebrity. He was ninety-six years old, and he never fell ill until the very time when a month ago he caught a cold, falling into a swamp on a dark night. The next day he fell ill and has been dying ever since.

The cousin turned to me:

“If you want, let’s go visit these poor people now.”

He meant the old man's family—his fifty-eight-year-old grandson and his grandson's fifty-seven-year-old wife. The intermediate generation has long since died. They huddled in a miserable shack, at the entrance to the village, to the right.

I don't know why, but the thought of Christmas in this wilderness got us to chat. We told each other all sorts of stories about previous Christmas Eve, about our adventures on this crazy night, about past successes with women and about awakenings the next day - awakenings together, accompanied by surprise and risky surprises.

Thus, our lunch was delayed. Having finished with him, we smoked a lot of pipes and, seized by the gaiety of hermits, the cheerful sociability that suddenly arises between two bosom friends, continued to talk incessantly, going over in conversation the most intimate memories that are shared during hours of such closeness.

The maid who left us long ago reappeared:

"Sir, I'm going to Mass."

- A quarter past twelve.

- Shall we go to church? Jules asked. – The Christmas mass is very curious in the countryside.

I agreed, and we set off, wrapped in hunting fur coats.

Severe frost pricked his face, and his eyes watered. The air was so icy that it took your breath away and your throat dried up. The deep, clear and severe sky was dotted with stars, they seemed to have turned pale from frost and flickered not like lights, but like sparkling ice floes, like shining crystals. In the distance, on the sonorous, dry and resonant earth, like copper, peasant clogs rang, and all around small village bells rang, sending their liquid and, as it were, also chilly sounds into the freezing expanse of night.

They didn't sleep in the village. The roosters crowed, deceived by all these sounds, and passing by the barns, one could hear the animals moving, awakened by this roar of life.

Approaching the village, Jules remembered the Fournels.

“Here’s their shack,” he said, “let’s go in!”

He knocked for a long time, but in vain. Finally, we were seen by a neighbor who left the house to go to church.

“They went to matins, gentlemen, to pray for the old man.

“So we will see them when we leave the church,” Jules told me.

The setting moon stood out like a sickle on the edge of the horizon amid an endless scattering of sparkling grains thrown into space with a flurry. And across the black plain, trembling lights moved, heading from everywhere to the pointed bell tower ringing incessantly. Through the tree-lined farms, through the dark valleys, these lights flickered everywhere, almost touching the ground. They were cow horn lanterns. Peasants walked with them in front of their wives, dressed in white caps and wide black cloaks, accompanied by awakened children who held their hands.

A lighted pulpit could be seen through the open door of the church. A garland of cheap candles illuminated the middle of the church, and in its left aisle the chubby wax baby Jesus, lying on real straw, among spruce branches, flaunted his pink, cutesy nakedness.

The service has begun. The peasants bowed their heads and the women knelt down and prayed. These simple people, having risen in the cold night, gazed with emotion at the crudely painted image and folded their hands, looking with naive timidity at the wretched luxury of this childish performance.

The cold air stirred the flames of the candles. Jules told me:

- Let's get out of here! Still better outside.

Heading home along the lonely road, while the kneeling peasants trembled devoutly in the church, we relapsed into our reminiscences and talked so long that the service was already over when we came back to the village.

A thin streak of light shone from under the Furnels' door.

“They watch over the dead,” said my cousin. “Let’s finally go to these poor fellows, it will please them.”

Several firebrands were burning in the hearth. The dark room, whose greasy walls were glossy and the worm-eaten beams blackened with time, was full of the suffocating smell of fried blood sausage. On a large table, from under which a bread chest protruded like a huge belly, a candle burned in a twisted iron candlestick; acrid smoke from a wick burnt with a mushroom rose to the ceiling. Furneli, husband and wife, broke their fast in private.

Gloomy, with a dejected look and stupid peasant faces, they ate intently, without uttering a word. On the only plate between them lay a large piece of black pudding, spreading a fetid steam. From time to time, with the end of a knife, they cut off a circle from it, put it on bread and began to chew slowly.

When the husband's glass was empty, the wife took the pitcher and filled it with cider.

When we appeared, they stood up, seated us, offered to “follow their example”, and after our refusal they again began to eat.

After a few minutes of silence, my cousin asked:

- So, then, Antim, your grandfather, is dead?

“Yes, sir, just finished.

The silence resumed. The wife, out of courtesy, removed the soot from the candle. Then, to say something, I added:

- He was very old.

His fifty-seven-year-old granddaughter replied:

“Oh, his time has passed, he had nothing more to do here!

I wanted to look at the corpse of a hundred-year-old man, and I asked to be shown it to me.

The peasants, until that moment calm, suddenly became agitated. They looked inquiringly and worriedly at each other and did not answer.

My relative, seeing their embarrassment, insisted.

Then the husband asked suspiciously and sullenly:

- And what do you need it for?

“Nothing,” Jules replied. “But that’s how it’s always done; why don't you want to show it to us?

The peasant shrugged.

- Yes, I do not refuse, only at such a time it is inconvenient.

Many guesses flashed through each of us. And since the dead man's grandchildren still did not move and continued to sit opposite each other, lowering their eyes, with those wooden, displeased faces that seem to say: "Get the hell out of here," Jules said decisively:

“Well, well, Antim, get up and take us to the old man’s room.

But the peasant, though resigned, replied gloomily:

“Don't worry, he's not there anymore, sir.

Where is he then?

The wife interrupted her husband:

- I will tell you. We put it until tomorrow in the bread chest; We had nowhere else to put him.

Taking off the plate of sausage, she lifted the lid from the table, bent down from the candles to illuminate the inside of a huge box, and in the depths of it we saw something gray, some kind of long bundle, from one end of which protruded a thin face with tousled gray hair, and from the other two bare feet.

It was an old man, all dried up, with eyes closed, wrapped in his shepherd's cloak and sleeping his last sleep among old black crusts of bread, as centuries old as himself.

His grandchildren broke the fast over him!

Jules, indignant, trembling with anger, shouted:

“But why didn’t you leave him on his bed, you kind of man?”

Then the woman burst into tears and spoke quickly:

“I'll tell you everything, sir, we have only one bed in the house. We used to sleep on it with him, because there were only three of us. When he fell ill, we began to sleep on the ground, and in such cold weather as now, it's hard. Well, when he died, we said to ourselves: since he no longer suffers, why leave him in bed? We can perfectly put it away until tomorrow in the chest, and we ourselves will lie down on the bed, because the night will be cold! We can’t sleep with the dead, gentlemen! ..

My cousin, beside himself with indignation, quickly left, slamming the door, and I followed him, laughing my ass off.

Selma Lagerlöf
Translation from Swedish by V. Spasskaya
Legends about Christ

holy night

When I was five years old, I had a very great sorrow. I don't think I've known a stronger person since then: my grandmother died. Until her death, she spent her days sitting in her room on the corner sofa and telling us fairy tales.

Grandmother told them from morning to evening, and we, the children, quietly sat next to her and listened. It was a wonderful life! No other children lived as well as we did.

Only a little remains in my memory of my grandmother. I remember that she had beautiful, snow-white hair, that she walked completely hunched over and constantly knitted a stocking.

I also remember that when she had finished telling some fairy tale, she used to put her hand on my head and say:

- And all this is as true as the fact that we now see each other.

I also remember that she could sing wonderful songs, but she did not sing them often. In one of these songs, it was about a knight and a sea princess, and she had a refrain: “A cold, cold wind blew over the sea.”

I also remember a short prayer and a psalm she taught me.

Of all the tales that she told me, I have only a pale, vague memory. Only one of them I remember so well that I could retell it now. This is a little legend about the Nativity of Christ.

That's pretty much all I can remember about my grandmother, except what I remember best - the feeling of great loss when she left us.

I remember that morning when the sofa in the corner was empty, and it was impossible to imagine when this day would end. I will never forget this.

And I remember how we children were brought to the deceased, so that we could say goodbye to her and kiss her hand. We were afraid to kiss the deceased, but someone told us what it was last time when we can thank grandma for all the joy she brought us.

And I remember how fairy tales and songs left our house with my grandmother, packed in a long black box, and never returned.

Something was gone then. As if the door was locked forever into the wide, beautiful, Magic world in which we previously roamed freely. And there was no one who could open this door.

We gradually learned to play with dolls and toys and live like all other children, and it might seem that we no longer yearn for our grandmother and do not remember her.

But even at this moment, many years later, when I sit and remember all the legends about Christ I heard, the story about the Nativity of Christ that my grandmother loved to tell rises in my memory. And now I want to tell it myself, including it in my collection.

It was on Christmas Eve, when everyone left for church except Grandma and me. We were, it seems, alone in the whole house. They didn't take us because one of us was too small, the other too old. And both of us grieved that we could not attend the solemn service and see the glow of Christmas candles.

And when we were sitting alone with her, grandmother began her story:

“Once upon a dead, dark night, a man went out into the street to get a fire. He went from hut to hut, knocking on the door, and asked: "Help me, good people! My wife has just had a baby and I need to build a fire to keep her and the baby warm.”

But there was deep night and all the people were asleep. Nobody responded to his request.

When the man approached the sheep, he saw that three dogs were lying and dozing at the feet of the shepherd. At his approach, all three woke up and bared their wide mouths, as if about to bark, but did not utter a single sound. He saw their fur rise up on their backs, their sharp white teeth gleaming dazzlingly in the firelight, and they all rushed at him. He felt that one grabbed his leg, another grabbed his arm, a third grabbed his throat. But the strong teeth did not seem to obey the dogs, and without causing him the slightest harm, they stepped aside.

The man wanted to go further. But the sheep lay so closely pressed together, back to back, that he could not get between them. Then he went straight on their backs forward to the fire. And not a single sheep woke up and did not move ...

Until now, my grandmother had been telling the story without stopping, but here I could not resist interrupting her:

- Why, grandmother, did they continue to lie quietly? Why are they so shy? I asked.

“You will soon find out,” said the grandmother, and continued her story: “When the man came close enough to the fire, the shepherd raised his head. He was a gloomy old man, rude and unfriendly to everyone. And when he saw that a stranger was approaching him, he grabbed a long, pointed staff, with which he always went after the flock, and threw it at him. And the staff with a whistle flew straight at the stranger, but, without hitting him, deviated to the side and flew past, to the other end of the field.

When my grandmother reached this point, I interrupted her again:

Why didn't the staff hit this man?

But my grandmother did not answer me and continued her story:

– The man then approached the shepherd and said to him: “Friend, help me, give me fire! My wife has just had a baby, and I need to build a fire to keep her and the baby warm!”

The old man would have preferred to refuse, but when he remembered that the dogs could not bite this man, the sheep did not run away from him and the staff, without hitting him, flew past, he became uneasy, and he did not dare to refuse his request.

"Take what you need!" the shepherd said.

But the fire had already almost burned out, and there were no more logs or twigs left around, only a large pile of heat lay; the stranger had neither a shovel nor a scoop to take the red coals for himself.

Seeing this, the shepherd again offered: “Take as much as you need!” - and rejoiced at the thought that a person cannot carry fire with him.

But he bent down, chose a handful of coals with his bare hands and put them in the floor of his clothes. And the coals did not burn his hands when he took them, and did not burn his clothes; he carried them as if they were apples or nuts...

Here I interrupted the narrator for the third time:

“Grandma, why didn’t the coals burn him?”

“Then you’ll find out everything,” said the grandmother and began to tell further: “When the angry and angry shepherd saw all this, he was very surprised:“ What kind of night is this, in which dogs are meek, like sheep, sheep know no fear, the staff does not kill and the fire does not burn? He called out to the stranger and asked him: “What kind of night is this? And why are all animals and things so merciful to you? “I can’t explain it to you, since you don’t see it yourself!” - the stranger answered and went on his way to make a fire as soon as possible and warm his wife and baby.

The shepherd decided not to lose sight of this man until it became clear to him what all this meant. He got up and followed him all the way to his abode. And the shepherd saw that the stranger did not even have a hut to live in, that his wife and newborn baby were lying in a mountain cave, where there was nothing but cold stone walls.

The shepherd thought that the poor innocent baby might freeze to death in this cave, and although he was a harsh man, he was moved to the core and decided to help the baby. Taking off his knapsack from his shoulders, he took out a soft white sheepskin and gave it to a stranger to lay the baby on it.

And at the very moment when it turned out that he, too, could be merciful, his eyes were opened, and he saw what he could not see before, and heard what he could not hear before.

He saw that angels with silver wings were standing in a dense ring around him. And each of them holds a harp in his hands, and they all sing with loud voices that the Savior was born that night, who will redeem the world from sin.

Then the shepherd understood why everything in nature rejoiced so much that night and no one could harm the child's father.

Looking around, the shepherd saw that the angels were everywhere. They sat in a cave, descended from the mountain and flew in the sky; they passed along the road and, passing the cave, stopped and cast a glance at the baby. And jubilation, joy, singing and fun reigned everywhere ... The shepherd saw all this in the midst of the darkness of the night, in which he could not see anything before. And he, rejoicing that his eyes were opened, fell on his knees and began to thank God ... - At these words, the grandmother sighed and said: - But what the shepherd saw, we could also see, because angels fly in the sky every Christmas night . If only we knew how to look! .. - And, putting her hand on my head, my grandmother added: - Remember this, because it is as true as the fact that we see each other. The point is not in candles and lamps, not in the sun and moon, but in having eyes that could see the greatness of the Lord!

Emperor's Vision

This happened at a time when Augustus was emperor in Rome and Herod was king in Judea.

And then one day a great and holy night descended on the earth. Such dark night no one has ever seen. It was impossible to distinguish water from land, and even on the most familiar road it was impossible not to get lost. Yes, it could not be otherwise, because not a single ray fell from the sky. All the stars remained at home, in their dwellings, and the gentle moon did not show her face.

And as deep as the darkness was the stillness and stillness of that night. The rivers stopped in their course, not the slightest breath of breeze was felt, the aspen leaves stopped trembling. Sea waves they no longer fought against the shore, and the sand of the desert did not crunch under the traveler's feet. Everything turned to stone, everything became motionless so as not to disturb the silence of the holy night. The grass stopped growing, the dew did not fall, the flowers did not exude their fragrance.

That night the beasts of prey did not come out to hunt, the snakes hid in their nests, the dogs did not bark. But the most wonderful thing was that inanimate objects they kept the sanctity of this night, not wanting to contribute to evil: master keys did not unlock locks, a knife could not shed someone's blood.

That same night, several people came out of imperial palace on the Palatine Hill in Rome and went through the Forum to the Capitol. Shortly before, at sunset, the senators asked the emperor if he had any objection to their intention to build a temple for him on sacred mountain Rome.

But August did not immediately give his consent. He did not know whether it would be pleasing to the gods if a temple built in his honor would rise next to their temple, and therefore he decided to sacrifice to his patron spirit in order to find out the will of the gods. Now, accompanied by several close associates, he went to make this sacrifice.

Augustus was carried on a stretcher, because he was old and could no longer climb the high stairs of the Capitol. In his hands he held a cage with pigeons, which he intended to sacrifice. There were no priests, soldiers, or senators with him; he was surrounded only by his closest friends. Torchbearers walked in front, as if paving the way through the darkness of the night, and slaves followed behind, carrying a tripod altar, knives, sacred fire and everything that was required for the sacrifice. The emperor was talking merrily on the road with his entourage, and therefore none of them noticed the boundless silence and stillness of the night. It was not until they had ascended to the Capitol and reached the site intended for the construction of the temple that it became clear to them that something extraordinary was happening.

This night, of course, was not like all other nights, also because on the edge of the cliff the emperor and his retinue saw some kind of strange creature. At first they mistook it for an old, twisted trunk of an olive tree, then it seemed to them that an ancient stone statue from the temple of Jupiter had come out onto the rock. At last they realized that it was old Sibyl.

Never before had they seen such an old gigantic creature, brown from weather and time. This old woman was terrifying. If the emperor were not here, everyone would have fled to their homes and hid in their beds.

“This is the one,” they whispered to each other, “who is as old as the grains of sand on the shores of her homeland. Why did she come out of her cave that very night? What does this woman portend to the emperor and the empire, deducing her prophecies on the leaves of trees, so that the wind then carries them to their destination?

The fear of Sibylla was so great that if she made even the slightest movement, people would immediately fall on their faces and bow their foreheads to the ground. But she sat as still as a statue. Bent over on the very edge of the cliff, her hands half-covering her eyes, she peered into night darkness. She seemed to have climbed a hill to get a better view of something happening infinitely far away. So she could see something even on such a dark night!

Only now did the emperor and his entire retinue notice how thick the darkness of the night was. Nothing was visible even from a distance outstretched hand. And what silence, what silence! Even the dull roar of the Tiber did not reach their ears. They were choking on the still air, cold sweat broke out on their foreheads, their hands were numb and hung helplessly. They felt that something terrible was about to happen. However, none of the retinue wanted to reveal their fear, everyone told the emperor that this was a happy sign: the whole universe held its breath to bow to the new god.

They urged Augustus to hasten the sacrifice.

“It is possible that the ancient Sibylla,” they said, “for this reason, she left her cave to greet the emperor.

In reality, Sibylla's attention was absorbed in something else entirely. Not noticing either Augustus or his retinue, she was mentally transported to a distant country. And it seemed to her that she was wandering across a vast plain. In the dark, she stumbles upon some bumps. But no, these are not bumps, but sheep. She wanders among a huge herd of sleeping sheep. She saw the fire. It burns in the middle of the field, and she makes her way to him. Shepherds sleep near the fire, and near them lie long, pointed staffs, with which they usually protect the herd from predatory animals. But what is it? Sibylla sees a flock of jackals sneaking up on the fire. Meanwhile, the shepherds do not protect their flock, the dogs continue to sleep peacefully, the sheep do not scatter, and the jackals calmly lie down next to people.

Here's what strange picture Sibylle was now watching, but she knew nothing of what was going on behind her, on the top of the mountain. She did not know that an altar was erected there, a fire was lit, incense was poured, and the emperor took out one dove from the cage to sacrifice it. But his hands suddenly became so weak that they could not hold the bird. With one light flap of its wings, the dove broke free and, flying high, disappeared into the darkness of the night.

When this happened, the courtiers looked suspiciously at the ancient Sibylla. They thought she had set it all up.

Could they know that Sibylla still felt as if she were standing by the shepherds' fire, listening to the gentle music softly playing in the silent night? Sybil heard it long before she finally realized that the music came not from the earth, but from the sky. She raised her head and saw light, radiant creatures gliding across the sky. They were small choirs of angels. They seemed to be looking for something, softly singing their sweet-sounding hymns.

While Sibylla listened to the angelic songs, the emperor again prepared to make a sacrifice. He washed his hands, cleaned the altar, and ordered another dove to be brought in. But although this time he tried his best to hold on to the bird, the smooth body slipped out of his hand, and the dove flew up to the sky and disappeared into the impenetrable darkness.

The Emperor was horrified. He fell on his knees before the empty altar and began to pray to his patron spirit. He asked him to avert the disasters that this night apparently foreshadowed.

But this, too, went unnoticed by Sibylla. She was all absorbed in the singing of the angels, which grew stronger and stronger. Finally it became so loud that it woke the shepherds. Rising, they watched as the luminous hosts of silvery angels cut through the night darkness in long, quivering strings, like migratory birds. Some had lutes and harps in their hands, others had zithers and harps, and their singing rang out as joyfully as children's laughter, and as carelessly as the chirping of larks. Hearing this, the shepherds got up and hurried to the city where they lived to tell about this miracle there.

The shepherds climbed the narrow, winding path, and the ancient Sibyl watched them. Suddenly, the mountain was lit up with light. Just above her, a large one lit up, bright Star, and, like silver, the town on the top of the mountain shone in its radiance. All the hosts of angels flying in the air rushed there with jubilant cries, and the shepherds quickened their steps so that they were almost running. When they reached the city, they saw that the angels had gathered over a low manger near the city gates. It was a pitiful building with a thatched roof, clinging to the rock. A star shone above him, and more and more angels flocked here. Some sat on the thatched roof or lowered themselves onto sheer cliff behind him; others, spreading their wings, soared in the air. And from their radiant wings all the air shone with a bright light.

At the very moment that a star lit up over the town, all nature awakened, and the people who stood on the heights of the Capitol could not fail to notice this. They felt a fresh, caressing breeze swirling through the air, as streams of fragrance spread around them. The trees rustled, the Tiber rumbled, the stars shone, and the moon rose suddenly in the sky and lit up the world. And two doves fluttered from the clouds and sat on the shoulders of the emperor.

When this miracle happened, Augustus rose in proud joy, while his friends and slaves fell on their knees.

— Ave Caesar! they exclaimed. “Your spirit answered you. You are the god that will be worshiped on the heights of the Capitol.

And the enthusiastic cries with which the retinue praised the emperor were so loud that they finally reached the ears of old Sibylla and distracted her from the visions. She got up from her place on the edge of the cliff and walked towards the people. It seemed that a dark cloud rose from the abyss and rushed to the mountain peak. Sibylla was terrible in her old age: matted hair hung around her head in liquid tufts, the joints of her arms and legs were swollen, the darkened skin that covered her body with innumerable wrinkles resembled the bark of a tree.

Mighty and formidable, she approached the emperor. With one hand she touched his shoulder, with the other she pointed to the far east.

– Look! she ordered, and the emperor followed her order.

The space opened up before his eyes, and they penetrated into the far eastern country. And he saw a wretched barn under a steep cliff and in open doors several kneeling shepherds. In the cave, he saw a young mother kneeling in front of a newborn baby, who was lying on a bundle of straw on the floor.

And with her big, knotty fingers, Sybil pointed to this poor baby.

— Ave Caesar! she exclaimed with a caustic laugh. “This is the God that will be worshiped on the heights of the Capitol!”

Then Augustus recoiled from her as if she were mad. But a powerful spirit of foresight descended upon Sibylla. Her dull eyes lit up, her hands stretched out to the sky, her voice changed, as if it did not belong to her; such a sonority and power appeared in it that it could be heard throughout the universe. And she spoke the words she seemed to read in the heavens:

- On the Capitol they will worship the renovator of the world, be he Christ or Antichrist, but not born from dust.

Saying this, she walked past the terrified people, slowly descended from the top of the mountain and disappeared.

The next day, Augustus strictly forbade the erection of a monument to him on the Capitol. Instead, he erected a sanctuary there in honor of the newborn baby God and called it the Altar of Heaven - Ara coelli.

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