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                             CHRIST LEGENDS

                                   BY

                             SELMA LAGERLOeF

                      Translated from the Swedish

                                   BY

                         VELMA SWANSTON HOWARD

                      DECORATIONS BY BERTHA STUART

                             [Illustration]

                                NEW YORK

                         HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

                                  1908

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                            Copyright, 1908,

                                   BY

                         HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

                                -------

                        Published October, 1908

                      THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS
                             RAHWAY, N. J.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                CONTENTS

                    THE HOLY NIGHT                  1
                    THE EMPEROR'S VISION           13
                    THE WISE MEN'S WELL            25
                    BETHLEHEM'S CHILDREN           41
                    THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT          73
                    IN NAZARETH                    85
                    IN THE TEMPLE                  95
                    SAINT VERONICA'S KERCHIEF     119
                    ROBIN REDBREAST               191
                    OUR LORD AND SAINT PETER      203
                    THE SACRED FLAME              221

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration: The Holy Night]

                             THE HOLY NIGHT


When I was five years old I had such a great sorrow! I hardly know if I
have had a greater since.

It was then my grandmother died. Up to that time, she used to sit every
day on the corner sofa in her room, and tell stories.

I remember that grandmother told story after story from morning till
night, and that we children sat beside her, quite still, and listened.
It was a glorious life! No other children had such happy times as we
did.

It isn't much that I recollect about my grandmother. I remember that she
had very beautiful snow-white hair, and stooped when she walked, and
that she always sat and knitted a stocking.

And I even remember that when she had finished a story, she used to lay
her hand on my head and say: "All this is as true, as true as that I see
you and you see me."

I also remember that she could sing songs, but this she did not do every
day. One of the songs was about a knight and a sea-troll, and had this
refrain: "It blows cold, cold weather at sea."

Then I remember a little prayer she taught me, and a verse of a hymn.

Of all the stories she told me, I have but a dim and imperfect
recollection. Only one of them do I remember so well that I should be
able to repeat it. It is a little story about Jesus' birth.

Well, this is nearly all that I can recall about my grandmother, except
the thing which I remember best; and that is, the great loneliness when
she was gone.

I remember the morning when the corner sofa stood empty and when it was
impossible to understand how the days would ever come to an end. That I
remember. That I shall never forget!

And I recollect that we children were brought forward to kiss the hand
of the dead and that we were afraid to do it. But then some one said to
us that it would be the last time we could thank grandmother for all the
pleasure she had given us.

And I remember how the stories and songs were driven from the homestead,
shut up in a long black casket, and how they never came back again.

I remember that something was gone from our lives. It seemed as if the
door to a whole beautiful, enchanted world--where before we had been
free to go in and out--had been closed. And now there was no one who
knew how to open that door.

And I remember that, little by little, we children learned to play with
dolls and toys, and to live like other children. And then it seemed as
though we no longer missed our grandmother, or remembered her.

But even to-day--after forty years--as I sit here and gather together
the legends about Christ, which I heard out there in the Orient, there
awakes within me the little legend of Jesus' birth that my grandmother
used to tell, and I feel impelled to tell it once again, and to let it
also be included in my collection.

It was a Christmas Day and all the folks had driven to church except
grandmother and I. I believe we were all alone in the house. We had not
been permitted to go along, because one of us was too old and the other
was too young. And we were sad, both of us, because we had not been
taken to early mass to hear the singing and to see the Christmas
candles.

But as we sat there in our loneliness, grandmother began to tell a
story.

"There was a man," said she, "who went out in the dark night to borrow
live coals to kindle a fire. He went from hut to hut and knocked. 'Dear
friends, help me!' said he. 'My wife has just given birth to a child,
and I must make a fire to warm her and the little one.'

"But it was way in the night, and all the people were asleep. No one
replied.

"The man walked and walked. At last he saw the gleam of a fire a long
way off. Then he went in that direction, and saw that the fire was
burning in the open. A lot of sheep were sleeping around the fire, and
an old shepherd sat and watched over the flock.

"When the man who wanted to borrow fire came up to the sheep, he saw
that three big dogs lay asleep at the shepherd's feet. All three awoke
when the man approached and opened their great jaws, as though they
wanted to bark; but not a sound was heard. The man noticed that the hair
on their backs stood up and that their sharp, white teeth glistened in
the firelight. They dashed toward him. He felt that one of them bit at
his leg and one at his hand and that one clung to his throat. But their
jaws and teeth wouldn't obey them, and the man didn't suffer the least
harm.

"Now the man wished to go farther, to get what he needed. But the sheep
lay back to back and so close to one another that he couldn't pass them.
Then the man stepped upon their backs and walked over them and up to the
fire. And not one of the animals awoke or moved."

Thus far, grandmother had been allowed to narrate without interruption.
But at this point I couldn't help breaking in. "Why didn't they do it,
grandma?" I asked.

"That you shall hear in a moment," said grandmother--and went on with
her story.

"When the man had almost reached the fire, the shepherd looked up. He
was a surly old man, who was unfriendly and harsh toward human beings.
And when he saw the strange man coming, he seized the long spiked staff,
which he always held in his hand when he tended his flock, and threw it
at him. The staff came right toward the man, but, before it reached him,
it turned off to one side and whizzed past him, far out in the meadow."

When grandmother had got this far, I interrupted her again. "Grandma,
why wouldn't the stick hurt the man?" Grandmother did not bother about
answering me, but continued her story.

"Now the man came up to the shepherd and said to him: 'Good man, help
me, and lend me a little fire! My wife has just given birth to a child,
and I must make a fire to warm her and the little one.'

"The shepherd would rather have said no, but when he pondered that the
dogs couldn't hurt the man, and the sheep had not run from him, and that
the staff had not wished to strike him, he was a little afraid, and
dared not deny the man that which he asked.

"'Take as much as you need!' he said to the man.

"But then the fire was nearly burnt out. There were no logs or branches
left, only a big heap of live coals; and the stranger had neither spade
nor shovel, wherein he could carry the red-hot coals.

"When the shepherd saw this, he said again: 'Take as much as you need!'
And he was glad that the man wouldn't be able to take away any coals.

"But the man stooped and picked coals from the ashes with his bare
hands, and laid them in his mantle. And he didn't burn his hands when he
touched them, nor did the coals scorch his mantle; but he carried them
away as if they had been nuts or apples."

But here the story-teller was interrupted for the third time. "Grandma,
why wouldn't the coals burn the man?"

"That you shall hear," said grandmother, and went on:

"And when the shepherd, who was such a cruel and hard-hearted man, saw
all this, he began to wonder to himself: 'What kind of a night is this,
when the dogs do not bite, the sheep are not scared, the staff does not
kill, or the fire scorch?' He called the stranger back, and said to him:
'What kind of a night is this? And how does it happen that all things
show you compassion?'

"Then said the man: 'I cannot tell you if you yourself do not see it.'
And he wished to go his way, that he might soon make a fire and warm his
wife and child.

"But the shepherd did not wish to lose sight of the man before he had
found out what all this might portend. He got up and followed the man
till they came to the place where he lived.

"Then the shepherd saw that the man didn't have so much as a hut to
dwell in, but that his wife and babe were lying in a mountain grotto,
where there was nothing except the cold and naked stone walls.

"But the shepherd thought that perhaps the poor innocent child might
freeze to death there in the grotto; and, although he was a hard man, he
was touched, and thought he would like to help it. And he loosened his
knapsack from his shoulder, took from it a soft white sheepskin, gave it
to the strange man, and said that he should let the child sleep on it.

"But just as soon as he showed that he, too, could be merciful, his eyes
were opened, and he saw what he had not been able to see before and
heard what he could not have heard before.

"He saw that all around him stood a ring of little silver-winged angels,
and each held a stringed instrument, and all sang in loud tones that
to-night the Saviour was born who should redeem the world from its sins.

"Then he understood how all things were so happy this night that they
didn't want to do anything wrong.

"And it was not only around the shepherd that there were angels, but he
saw them everywhere. They sat inside the grotto, they sat outside on the
mountain, and they flew under the heavens. They came marching in great
companies, and, as they passed, they paused and cast a glance at the
child.

"There were such jubilation and such gladness and songs and play! And
all this he saw in the dark night, whereas before he could not have made
out anything. He was so happy because his eyes had been opened that he
fell upon his knees and thanked God."

Here grandmother sighed and said: "What that shepherd saw we might also
see, for the angels fly down from heaven every Christmas Eve, if we
could only see them."

Then grandmother laid her hand on my head, and said: "You must remember
this, for it is as true, as true as that I see you and you see me. It is
not revealed by the light of lamps or candles, and it does not depend
upon sun and moon; but that which is needful is, that we have such eyes
as can see God's glory."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration: The Emperor's Vision]

                          THE EMPEROR'S VISION


It happened at the time when Augustus was Emperor in Rome and Herod was
King in Jerusalem.

It was then that a very great and holy night sank down over the earth.
It was the darkest night that any one had ever seen. One could have
believed that the whole earth had fallen into a cellar-vault. It was
impossible to distinguish water from land, and one could not find one's
way on the most familiar road. And it couldn't be otherwise, for not a
ray of light came from heaven. All the stars stayed at home in their own
houses, and the fair moon held her face averted.

The silence and the stillness were as profound as the darkness. The
rivers stood still in their courses, the wind did not stir, and even the
aspen leaves had ceased to quiver. Had any one walked along the
seashore, he would have found that the waves no longer dashed upon the
sands; and had one wandered in the desert, the sand would not have
crunched under one's feet. Everything was as motionless as if turned to
stone, so as not to disturb the holy night. The grass was afraid to
grow, the dew could not fall, and the flowers dared not exhale their
perfume.

On this night the wild beasts did not seek their prey, the serpents did
not sting, and the dogs did not bark. And what was even more glorious,
inanimate things would have been unwilling to disturb the night's
sanctity, by lending themselves to an evil deed. No false key could have
picked a lock, and no knife could possibly have drawn a drop of blood.

In Rome, during this very night, a small company of people came from the
Emperor's palace at the Palatine and took the path across the Forum
which led to the Capitol. During the day just ended the Senators had
asked the Emperor if he had any objections to their erecting a temple to
him on Rome's sacred hill. But Augustus had not immediately given his
consent. He did not know if it would be agreeable to the gods that he
should own a temple next to theirs, and he had replied that first he
wished to ascertain their will in the matter by offering a nocturnal
sacrifice to his genius. It was he who, accompanied by a few trusted
friends, was on his way to perform this sacrifice.

Augustus let them carry him in his litter, for he was old, and it was an
effort for him to climb the long stairs leading to the Capitol. He
himself held the cage with the doves for the sacrifice. No priests or
soldiers or senators accompanied him, only his nearest friends.
Torch-bearers walked in front of him in order to light the way in the
night darkness and behind him followed the slaves, who carried the
tripod, the knives, the charcoal, the sacred fire, and all the other
things needed for the sacrifice.

On the way the Emperor chatted gaily with his faithful followers, and
therefore none of them noticed the infinite silence and stillness of the
night. Only when they had reached the highest point of the Capitol Hill
and the vacant spot upon which they contemplated erecting the temple,
did it dawn upon them that something unusual was taking place.

It could not be a night like all others, for up on the very edge of the
cliff they saw the most remarkable being! At first they thought it was
an old, distorted olive-trunk; later they imagined that an ancient stone
figure from the temple of Jupiter had wandered out on the cliff. Finally
it was apparent to them that it could be only the old sibyl.

Anything so aged, so weather-beaten, and so giant-like in stature they
had never seen. This old woman was awe-inspiring! If the Emperor had not
been present, they would all have fled to their homes.

"It is she," they whispered to each other, "who has lived as many years
as there are sand-grains on her native shores. Why has she come out from
her cave just to-night? What does she foretell for the Emperor and the
Empire--she, who writes her prophecies on the leaves of the trees and
knows that the wind will carry the words of the oracle to the person for
whom they are intended?"

They were so terrified that they would have dropped on their knees with
their foreheads pressed against the earth, had the sibyl stirred. But
she sat as still as though she were lifeless. Crouching upon the
outermost edge of the cliff, and shading her eyes with her hand, she
peered out into the night. She sat there as if she had gone up on the
hill that she might see more clearly something that was happening far
away. _She_ could see things on a night like this!

At that moment the Emperor and all his retinue marked how profound the
darkness was. None of them could see a hand's breadth in front of him.
And what stillness! What silence! Not even the Tiber's hollow murmur
could they hear. The air seemed to suffocate them, cold sweat broke out
on their foreheads, and their hands were numb and powerless. They feared
that some dreadful disaster was impending.

But no one cared to show that he was afraid, and everyone told the
Emperor that this was a good omen. All Nature held its breath to greet a
new god.

They counseled Augustus to hurry with the sacrifice, and said that the
old sibyl had evidently come out of her cave to greet his genius.

But the truth was that the old sibyl was so absorbed in a vision that
she did not even know that Augustus had come up to the Capitol. She was
transported in spirit to a far-distant land, where she imagined that she
was wandering over a great plain. In the darkness she stubbed her foot
continually against something, which she believed to be grass-tufts. She
stooped down and felt with her hand. No, it was not grass, but sheep.
She was walking between great sleeping flocks of sheep.

Then she noticed the shepherds' fire. It burned in the middle of the
field, and she groped her way to it. The shepherds lay asleep by the
fire, and beside them were the long, spiked staves with which they
defended their flocks from wild beasts. But the little animals with the
glittering eyes and the bushy tails that stole up to the fire, were they
not jackals? And yet the shepherds did not fling their staves at them,
the dogs continued to sleep, the sheep did not flee, and the wild
animals lay down to rest beside the human beings.

This the sibyl saw, but she knew nothing of what was being enacted on
the hill back of her. She did not know that there they were raising an
altar, lighting charcoal and strewing incense, and that the Emperor took
one of the doves from the cage to sacrifice it. But his hands were so
benumbed that he could not hold the bird. With one stroke of the wing,
it freed itself and disappeared in the night darkness.

When this happened, the courtiers glanced suspiciously at the old sibyl.
They believed that it was she who caused the misfortune.

Could they know that all the while the sibyl thought herself standing
beside the shepherds' fire, and that she listened to a faint sound which
came trembling through the dead-still night? She heard it long before
she marked that it did not come from the earth, but from the sky. At
last she raised her head; then she saw light, shimmering forms glide
forward in the darkness. They were little flocks of angels, who, singing
joyously, and apparently searching, flew back and forth above the wide
plain.

While the sibyl was listening to the angel-song, the Emperor was making
preparations for a new sacrifice. He washed his hands, cleansed the
altar, and took up the other dove. And, although he exerted his full
strength to hold it fast, the dove's slippery body slid from his hand,
and the bird swung itself up into the impenetrable night.

The Emperor was appalled! He fell upon his knees and prayed to his
genius. He implored him for strength to avert the disasters which this
night seemed to foreshadow.

Nor did the sibyl hear any of this either. She was listening with her
whole soul to the angel-song, which grew louder and louder. At last it
became so powerful that it wakened the shepherds. They raised themselves
on their elbows and saw shining hosts of silver-white angels move in the
darkness in long, swaying lines, like migratory birds. Some held lutes
and cymbals in their hands; others held zithers and harps, and their
song rang out as merry as child-laughter, and as care-free as the lark's
trill. When the shepherds heard this, they rose up to go to the mountain
city, where they lived, to tell of the miracle.

They groped their way forward on a narrow, winding path, and the sibyl
followed them. Suddenly it grew light up there on the mountain: a big,
clear star kindled right over it, and the city on the mountain summit
glittered like silver in the starlight. All the fluttering angel throngs
hastened thither, shouting for joy, and the shepherds hurried so that
they almost ran. When they reached the city, they found that the angels
had assembled over a low stable near the city gate. It was a wretched
structure, with a roof of straw and the naked cliff for a back wall.
Over it hung the Star, and hither flocked more and more angels. Some
seated themselves on the straw roof or alighted upon the steep
mountain-wall back of the house; others, again, held themselves in the
air on outspread wings, and hovered